


John and Ronon Make a Scheme

by ObsessiveExplosion



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Concussions, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, John Sheppard Whump, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessiveExplosion/pseuds/ObsessiveExplosion
Summary: Ronon gives John a concussion while sparring, and the two conspire to hide it from Carson.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

John paced anxiously around the training room, waiting for Ronon. He was full of pent-up energy - last week, a mission-gone-wrong had resulted in a villager hitting him on the head with a metal pipe. He had ended up with a nasty concussion, not to mention a few bruised ribs from the fall he’d taken, and Carson had had him on light duty since then. Light duty meant no missions, of course, but almost worse it meant no running and no sparring. John wasn’t exactly sure what Carson expected him to do with his time when there were so many stupid rules. Seven days out and John had so much nervous energy he felt like he might explode if he didn’t do something with it.

John had checked in with Carson that day, and been told that his concussion was healing up nicely and before long he’d be able to start going on missions again. John hadn’t asked him if he was allowed to start sparring in the meantime. He figured if fighting with Ronon or Teyla wasn’t allowed, Carson would have mentioned it. And anyways, he wasn’t going to be very useful on a mission if he was completely out of shape. If he was close to being put back on full duty, it was probably best for him to start sparring again a few days beforehand, to get his strength back.

Still, John didn’t exactly want everyone to know that he was sparring again. Specifically he didn’t want Carson to know, and tell him to stop, which meant he probably couldn’t have Teyla or very possibly Rodney know either. For that reason, he had told Ronon to meet him in the training room at eleven at night, in hopes that it would be empty and he could get some of his energy out in relative peace.

Luckily, Ronon and John sparred late at night fairly often, whenever one of them couldn’t sleep or was too full of energy. John didn’t think Ronon had thought anything of his request, and John didn’t even think he’d thought to question whether or not John should be doing this yet.

They’d be careful, John told himself. They’d be careful, and John would end up back in shape, and no one would even have to know.

And anyways, no one had explicitly told John no. It was probably fine for him to be doing this anyways.

The door to the training room opened, and John’s head snapped up. Ronon entered the room, already looking ready for a fight.

“You ready to spar?” John asked, working hard to keep his voice casual. He tried to ignore the fact that his damaged ribs were making it hard to get a deep breath, and he had only stopped getting dizzy when he stood up too fast the day before.

Apparently it didn’t work as well as he’d hoped, because Ronon’s brow furrowed and he paused, wooden training sword already in hand.

“Uhh, you sure you’re okay?”

“Yep,” John said quickly. “Absolutely.”

Ronon shrugged, and tossed John a sword of his own. John caught it, taking as deep a breath as he could, and stepped back into a fighting stance. He already felt better.

He suspected Ronon was going easy on him right out of the gate, which John didn’t like one bit. Just because his ribs were a little sore and his head still hurt in the mornings was no excuse to be treating him like an old man.

John blocked Ronon’s next strike, an easy one a little above his head, and managed a glancing blow off Ronon’s side. He saw the Satedan grin a little, and John settled into the fight with a bit more satisfaction as Ronon’s blows started coming faster.

John’s ribs were definitely beginning to hurt now, but he ignored the telltale twinge in his side as he matched Ronon strike for strike, protecting the injured side that Ronon had an unnerving knack for targeting. He blocked a low strike, a move he often failed to see coming from Ronon, and he was starting to feel proud of himself now. Ronon often spun after that move, and John’s muscle memory took over as he moved to block Ronon’s strike before it had even happened.

Ronon did spin, but in the opposite direction from the way John had expected, and his ribs were aching badly enough now that he couldn’t get the sword around in time. Ronon’s stick came around, smashing right into John’s unprotected temple, and John’s head exploded with a dizzying starburst of agony. The hard floor of the training room met his face with a bone-jarring jolt, and John’s eyes slipped closed.

* * *

Ronon spent a half-second staring at Sheppard’s crumpled body in horror. He was starting to get the feeling that he had done something very, very stupid. John was already off-duty, and Ronon had just damaged him further. Why hadn’t he been more careful? Why had Sheppard asked him to spar in the first place, if he wasn’t ready? Why had Ronon let John push him into a more intense session? Ronon’s strike had been hard. Ronon had probably just undone any of the healing John had managed to do over the past week, which meant even longer off-duty.

Sheppard was going to kill him.

And then, a horrible thought occurred to Ronon, and he was on his knees beside John in an instant, feeling for a pulse. John...had to be alive, right?

But John was already blinking awake, looking sick and disoriented. He lifted a trembling hand to his temple, where blood was already starting to stream into his eye. He hissed in pain when his fingers touched the wound, smearing blood around his forehead. Then, he stared at his bloody fingers in confusion and horror.

“R’non?” he slurred. “Wh’t happened?”

Ronon sucked in a breath, putting a hand on Sheppard’s shoulder to calm him. “You got hit,” he said. “Come on, I’ll help you up. We need to get you to Beckett.”

John’s eyes flew open, and he scrambled into a sitting position. “No! Ronon, I-”

“Your last concussion was barely healed. And your head is bleeding. Beckett will help.”

“No!” John said again, looking panicked. “Ronon, I...I’m fine.”

Ronon narrowed his eyes. John didn’t look fine. Blood was streaming down his face, his pupils were blown out, and he could barely sit up. And anyways, that was the exact sort of thing that John would lie about.

“You don’t look fine,” Ronon said.

“This doesn’t hurt nearly ‘s bad as the last one,” John said. He touched his fingers to his temple again, and grimaced. “‘Nd if I go to Beckett, he’ll take me off duty for at least another week. Maybe longer.”

Ronon didn’t want that. He “made the other SG teams nervous,” so if Sheppard was off-duty, Ronon was basically off-duty too, unless something really big was happening.

And not only that, but he didn’t want that for Sheppard. The man was clearly going insane with boredom, and Ronon didn’t want that to extend by panicking and getting him in trouble with Beckett.

“Pleaseeeee,” John begged. “Just...help me back to my room. We can slap a bandage on it, and no one will ever know.”

Ronon raised an eyebrow - he still wasn’t convinced.

“Also, if you take me to Beckett, I’ll tell him th’s was all your fault,” Sheppard said.

Now that was a real threat. Beckett was shockingly terrifying when he was angry, and the fact that Sheppard had in fact been injured while sparring with Ronon...that didn’t exactly bode well. And John hadn’t even only been injured while sparring, he had been hit in the head by Ronon. If Carson found out the second concussion was all Ronon’s fault….

“Okay, we won’t go to Beckett,” Ronon said, trying very hard not to sound intimidated.

“Awes’me,” John whispered softly, closing his eyes and looking as though he were about to pass out again.

“Sheppard, no,” Ronon hissed. “I won’t take you to Beckett, but we gotta do something about this. You’re bleeding pretty bad.”

John absentmindedly touched his forehead again, and then stared at his bloody fingers for a few seconds. Finally, he looked up, locking his uneven pupils on Ronon’s. “‘Kay.

We can’t tell anyone, got it? Rodney, Teyla...they’ll tell Beckett. An’ he’ll yell, an’ I won’t get to go on missions. You won’t either.”

“Okay,” Ronon agreed. “I won’t tell anybody. But you gotta work with me, okay, Sheppard?”

John nodded, then hissed with pain, clutching at his head. Unsure what else to do, Ronon squeezed his shoulder. If John wouldn’t let him go to Beckett, then Ronon would have to do the doctoring.

That might pose a problem. Ronon knew a lot about field medicine - he’d had to learn it as a Runner in order to stay alive. But concussions were well outside his area of expertise. Ronon scanned his mind frantically for the sorts of things Carson asked him when he got a blow to the head. Unfortunately, one of the few symptoms of a concussion that Ronon knew was memory loss, and he couldn’t actually recall much of Beckett’s protocol.

“What do you know about concussions?” Ronon asked Sheppard. John grimaced, screwing up his face into an expression of extreme effort.

While John was thinking, Ronon continued to examine him. John’s head wound was still bleeding copiously, and it looked deep. At the very least, Ronon could get the bleeding stopped.

Ronon looked around the training room for a towel, or a forgotten jacket, or even perhaps a first aid kit. Nothing immediately jumped out at him, and John squirmed as the blood trickled down his neck and began to soak into his collar.

“Nothing to worry about,” Ronon told him, as John huffed and pulled at his collar. “I’ll get the bleeding stopped.”

Devoid of any other options, and beginning to panic at the thought of having to explain a large bloodstain in the training room, Ronon ripped off his shirt, balled it up, and pressed the wad of cloth to Sheppard’s forehead.

* * *

“Stop that,” John said, shoving at Ronon’s hand. He didn’t want the Satedan’s shirt pressing into his new head wound. It hurt, and the pressure was rapidly moving from uncomfortable to downright painful. Also, he thought that it couldn’t possibly be sanitary. If Carson were here to see this, he would be having a fit.

Which is why it was a good thing that he wasn’t.

“I need to get the bleeding stopped,” Ronon said, using his other hand to press the shirt onto John’s head more firmly. “Stop squirming.”

John frowned, but lowered his hands. Ronon lifted the edge of the shirt and peered carefully at the wound.

“It’s already slowing. Hold that in place,” he said. John obediently lifted a hand to the wad of fabric. “I’m going to ask you some questions.”

Right. Questions. John had had enough concussions, the last one barely a week ago, to know that part of the diagnosis involved Carson asking him a series of questions and making notes of his answers. He thought it might have to do with the memory centers of his brain, or how well he was processing information, or something like that. Having Ronon replicate this seemed like a solid start.

“Alright,” John said. “Then I wanna go back to my room.”

Ronon nodded. “What’s your full name?”

“John Sheppard.”

“Who are the members of your team?”

“Me, Mckay, Teyla, and you.”

“And what’s my full name?”

John closed his eyes softly. He certainly knew the answers to all Ronon’s questions, but trying to keep his gaze focused on Ronon was making his head pound mercilessly. All he wanted to do was be able to lie down. “Ronon Dex.”

“What’s your rank?”

“Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on Atlan’is. In the Pegasus Galaxy.”

“I meant what room,” Ronon said. John wondered if that would be counted as a wrong answer.

“The training room?”

Ronon nodded, looking relieved. “Okay. Maybe it’s not as bad as we thought. Maybe you aren’t concussed.”

John grimaced. As much as he wanted to believe Ronon, the throbbing ache in his head made it impossible. John knew what a concussion felt like, he’d just had one. The training room, as well as Ronon’s concerned face, had taken on a somewhat blurry aspect, and John’s thoughts felt slow and clumsy. Ordinarily, John would have happily taken the out that Ronon offered him, but if he did that now, he would have to act normal and fool Carson completely on his own.

His head throbbed again, and John gasped, tightening his fingers over the wound. “I think the questions are just too easy,” he admitted miserably. “Carson’s are usually harder?”

Ronon frowned. “Makes sense. Okay, uhhh… I got one. My first big crush. What was her name?”

John froze. They rarely talked about Ronon’s time on Sateda, and that particular information was far from the front of John’s mind. “Uhhh, Beth?”

“Tamara,” Ronon said, worry creeping back into his tone. “Obviously.”

“Ask me another one,” John said, feeling the beginnings of panic. Normally, he would have remembered Ronon’s obscure stories, right? He definitely might have.

“What’s the first weapon I got?”

“Ummmm….”

“C’mon, Sheppard, you know this,” Ronon urged. “We talked about it before.”

“I can’t remember,” John whispered desperately. “Fuck, this is bad, right?”

“It ain’t good,” Ronon said darkly. “It was a triple-barreled shotgun, by the way.”

“I don’t even remember having that conversation,” John muttered, pressing his fingers over his still-bleeding head wound again.

“Yeah, probably ‘cause you’re really fucking concussed,” Ronon said. He grabbed John’s shoulders and peered into his face again. John did his best to stay focused on Ronon, but his vision was soft and fuzzy and it was hard to keep his gaze fixed on one point without his head screaming.

“Yeah. Very concussed,” Ronon said, scowling. “I think we can say that for sure.”

John was starting to feel the beginnings of panic. He wondered if perhaps he was in over his head. Carson could be overcautious, especially when there was a previous injury involved, and John didn’t want to be pulled off-duty for no reason. But at the same time, he did not want to do himself permanent damage by not taking an injury like this seriously enough. He thought he’d had much worse concussions than this one many times before, but then again, he had missed a lot of Ronon’s questions.

And his head felt like it was trying to murder him.

“I’m...not sure what to do,” John said sadly. “This is….”

“I think we need to get you back to your room,” Ronon said.

He stood. John kept sitting. Standing felt like an awful lot of work, and the idea had John a little overwhelmed.

Ronon reached a hand down. John reluctantly grabbed it.

Being pulled to his feet made John’s head spin horribly. His stomach did an uncomfortable flip-flop. As unpleasant as it was, he knew he would probably throw up at some point. It was difficult to get through a concussion without that. He put a tentative hand over his mouth, waiting to see if his stomach would settle.

“You alright?” Ronon asked, putting a hand on John’s shoulder to steady him.

John nodded shakily. “Just a little nauseous.”

Ronon gave him a bracing pat on the back, which didn’t help. Then, he guided John towards the door of the training room.

* * *

Zelenka was having a terrible night. He had been getting ready to go to bed when Weir had called him and told him they were locked out of the Ancient database, and several other systems had slowed way down. Rodney was already asleep, which is why Zelenka had been called. Never mind that he had been getting ready to go to sleep too. Typical.

He had checked in with Weir, taken a quick look at her tablet, and then determined that it was a problem with the whole network. It wasn’t particularly pressing, but Zelenka didn’t think it would take him more than an hour or two to fix and he’d be much more relaxed if he knew that it was done.

Zelenka rounded the corner and almost ran directly into Ronon and John. Sheppard blinked, looking panicked, for some odd reason. Ronon just frowned at him, as though Zelenka was doing something odd, or incorrect.

Zelenka didn’t think he was, but he took a half step backwards, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking. Ronon...wasn’t wearing a shirt, and didn’t seem to be uncomfortable with that in the slightest. Zelenka, however, was very uncomfortable.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Ronon asked, stepping forward, blocking John protectively with his body. Sheppard peered out from behind him, and Zelenka decided that the cloth he was holding to his forehead must be what remained of Ronon’s shirt. He couldn’t begin to guess what was happening, and he didn’t think he wanted to. John always seemed to be doing something strange, or reckless, or otherwise ill-advised. Zelenka had given up trying to predict what the Military Commander would come up with next.

“Well?” Ronon pushed, crossing his arms and glaring.

“My job,” Zelenka answered, as snappily as he dared. “What are you doing? Why are you not wearing a shirt? Is Colonel Sheppard...bleeding? It is eleven at night, you know.”

“I’m not bleeding,” John said angrily, staggering out from behind Ronon’s back. Zelenka blinked at the cloth wadded up beneath his hand, which was very clearly bloodstained.

“You are,” Zelenka told him. He was familiar with the Colonel’s stubbornness, but this seemed to fall more firmly into the category of denial. John was acting oddly, even for him. Was he...drunk?

“No,” John said. “‘M not. Everything is...fine. Ronon is fine. I’m fine. It’s…’s not even that late. Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

Zelenka simply stared at John, hoping that if he waited long enough, things would start making a little more sense.

Ronon shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. Gently, he took hold of John’s arm and pushed the other man backwards, stepping in front of him as John let himself be guided. Zelenka nodded sagely to himself. Definitely drunk, then.

“But what are you doing?” Ronon asked. “Like, in science words.”

Zelenka hadn’t thought Ronon was interested in science. In fact, if someone had asked him to guess, he would have said that Ronon thought that the base was run by magic, with McKay and Zelenka acting as wizards. Still, the man had asked. Nobody ever asked Zelenka what he was doing, they just told him to do it faster.

“Dr. Weir noticed that there seemed to be a problem with the network’s connection to the Ancient Database, and she wanted me to see if I could find a manual workaround or if I could repair the connection without having to take the whole system offline-”

Zelenka was cut off by the fact that Ronon was leaving. As soon as Zelenka had opened his mouth to speak, Ronon had put a hand on the small of John’s back and pushed him forward. John had the decency to spare Zelenka one panicked but somewhat apologetic look, and then they were retreating down the hallway.

Zelenka didn’t even bother calling out to them. To be completely honest, he didn’t really want to be involved. John always seemed to be bleeding, often on things, and Zelenka didn’t really like the sight of blood. He figured it was best to just let them do...whatever it was they were doing, and if there was a real problem, Zelenka was sure he would hear all about it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this story on FF for the first time right now as well, so I am going to post a chapter each day for this story as well as a new chapter of a story I had previously posted on FF.


	2. Chapter 2

John was in his own room now, which was good. John had not enjoyed moving very much at all. At first, it had seemed alright, his legs were steady underneath him and the world was only spinning a little bit. But then, things started to get kind of bad. He was filled with such an all-consuming exhaustion that he kept having to blink dark spots away from his vision, and all he wanted to do was lie down and try to go to sleep. But his nausea had risen again, and his headache along with it, and he was afraid that even if he wanted it, rest was going to be a long time away. 

“Alright,” Ronon said, sitting John down on his bed. “I want you to tell me how many fingers I’m holding up.”

“Wh’t?” Sheppard slurred. His eyes were closed right now, and he didn’t really want to open them. 

“Sheppard, wake up,” Ronon said, jostling his shoulder gently. “We need to keep checking things. How many fingers am I holding up?”

John slid his eyes open, but the room seemed way too bright and it was all he could do not to immediately shut them again. Ronon was now standing a few feet in front of him, holding up his hand. John had absolutely no idea how many fingers Ronon was holding up, but he wasn’t sure if that had more to do with his blurry vision or with the fact that Ronon seemed to be moving his hand back and forth. 

“Uhh, three?”

“Four,” Ronon shouted, or at least it sounded that way to John’s suddenly sensitive hearing. He flinched away from the noise, closing his eyes again at the spike of pain.

“Open your eyes,” Ronon told him urgently. “We’ll...we’ll try again.”

Right. John couldn’t keep his eyes closed, no matter how much he might want to. They needed to keep checking him over, it was just...it was just getting harder to remember.

“‘Kay,” John said softly, opening his eyes again and fixing them on Ronon as well as he could. Even through his blurry vision, he could see a smile break over Ronon’s face, briefly chasing away the worry.

“Good man, Sheppard,” Ronon said. He held up an unclear number of fingers and waggled them at John’s face. “How many now?”

“Umm, still three?” John really had no idea. He was certain that it had to be somewhere between one and five, but that was as much as he could narrow it down. At least he could remember the number of fingers that were on one hand. That could be a good sign, right?

“Two this time,” Ronon said sadly. He dropped his hand, sitting down on John’s couch. “What now? Should we try it again?”

“No point,” John answered, shrugging. “I don’t think.”

“Alright.” Ronon nodded, looking at John expectantly. “So what do we do now? Do you know any more tests?”

John shook his head before he forgot what a bad idea that was, hissing in pain as the world tilted on its axis. His fingers went to his forehead, and they came away slightly sticky with blood. John frowned at them, unsure what to do about this upsetting development.

“Let’s get that cleaned out,” Ronon said, getting back up from the couch. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as he tilted John’s head up, towards the light. John closed his eyes against the brightness and relaxed ever so slightly at the coolness of Ronon’s touch.

“Think you need stitches?” Ronon asked, his fingertips gently probing the cut.

“No,” John said sharply, fighting the sudden urge to pull his head away and hide under the bed. He’d been on the receiving end of Ronon’s idea of field medicine before, and tough as he was, he certainly wasn’t a masochist. “I’ll just clean it out.”

Ronon made a sort of disapproving grunt, and the pressure of his hands left John’s head. John left his eyes closed for just a few seconds longer, enjoying the darkness. Soon, he would go to the bathroom and start cleaning out his cut, he just wanted a moment to gather himself….

There was a sudden searing pain in the cut, and John choked back a yelp. His eyes flew open, and then he was coughing and spluttering as a horrible burning liquid made its way into his eyes and mouth.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, Sheppard,” Ronon said, putting his hand on John’s back. In between shuddering coughs, John’s head throbbed painfully. He did  _ not _ think he was okay.

“It’s just disinfectant,” Ronon told him soothingly.

“How ‘bout a damn warning?” John yelled, and the volume hurt his head but it was worth it. “And I said  _ I’d  _ clean it out.”

“You can barely see,” Ronon said matter-of-factly. “There’s a reason I’m here.”

John frowned. He supposed the Satedan was right. Maybe letting Ronon take care of things was for the best. 

If he was surrendering completely to Ronon’s care, things really must be looking bad.

“I’m gonna bandage it now,” Ronon said. 

“First aid kit in the front pocket of my vest,” John said, gesturing vaguely at his tac vest, which was draped over the back of his desk chair.

Ronon rummaged around in John’s vest for a minute or two. John kept his eyes closed, head braced in his hand. The wound was really starting to throb. John  _ hated  _ going to the infirmary, and still, if the stakes had been any lower, he would have been there in a heartbeat. He was starting to get to the point where he really just wanted the pain to be  _ gone _ .

“Head up again,” Ronon said firmly. John obediently tilted his head up, only daring to open his eyes to slits, and allowed Ronon to maneuver him until he could get the angle he wanted. 

Ronon put an absorbent pad over the wound itself, and then John felt him wind a few strips of gauze around his temple. The gauze tugged uncomfortably at his hair, and he frowned, resisting the urge to push Ronon away. 

“You got a black eye,” Ronon informed him.

“Well tha’s not surprising,” John said. His eye was throbbing, and the skin around his lid felt tight and swollen. “How noticeable is it?”

Ronon grunted noncommittally and tied the bandage off. John sighed.

“Can I sleep now?” he asked. He was trying not to think about how the next few days were going to play out - he really didn’t know how long he could keep this whole mess from Carson, especially with a bleeding temple and black eye. But he certainly wouldn’t be able to do it without sleeping. Exhaustion was tugging at his bones, just one more thing making it hard to think. 

“ _ No,”  _ Ronon said sharply. “Are you kidding? Don’t you remember what Beckett says?”   


“No?” John said helplessly.

“You  _ can’t sleep after a concussion. _ ”

“I don’t think that’s the rule anymore,” John mumbled. He had gotten a concussion playing lacrosse in high school, and he had had to spend about twenty-four hours awake, being asked questions all the while. But Beckett let John sleep. He had let John sleep pretty much immediately after the concussion that had landed him in the infirmary in the first place, and he was pretty sure that concussion had been worse than this one. 

But he also knew there was some rule about sleeping with concussions. He had to be woken every so often, or he had to only sleep for so long. Or maybe it was that he had to sleep on his side? There were a lot of rules about different medical things; he didn’t know how Beckett kept them all straight.

“Do you wanna  _ die _ , Sheppard?”

John frowned. He did not want to die. He wanted to sleep. Still, maybe Ronon had a point. And besides, John had asked for his help. Second-guessing him at every turn was probably counter-productive.

“No,” John admitted. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“You can’t just do your best,” Ronon said grimly. “You gotta stay awake. This is serious.”

Ronon was doing that  _ thing _ again, the one where his eyes got all dark and he looked even taller than usual, the way he always acted right before a fight. John wasn’t sure what there was to fight here, surely Ronon wasn’t going to fight  _ him _ , and it wasn’t like Ronon could battle sleep away. 

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” John asked, a little irritably. He sighed, rubbing at the uncomfortable bandage and wishing his head would stop hurting, just for a second.

Ronon’s face softened, and he backed down, sitting back on the couch. “Lemme think.” He looked around the room, apparently seeking inspiration.

“Hey, do you have any of that energy stuff? You know, the really shitty stuff you sometimes drink instead of coffee?”

John frowned. “Uhh, Monster? Yeah, I think I got some. In the corner.”

Ronon grinned. “Perfect. Just drink like three, and you’ll be up the whole night. Problem solved.”

John liked Monster, probably more than it deserved, but that still didn’t seem like a good idea right now. Not with his stomach twisting itself into knots. But his head was too foggy to come up with a better alternative. 

“Alright. Gimme some Monster.”

* * *

Ronon watched sharply as Sheppard popped the tab on the can and took a sip, grimacing. He paused, staring at the energy drink in dismay.

“Something wrong?” Ronon asked. John’s eyes weaved up to focus on him, the different-sized pupils slightly alarming to look at. Ronon had hoped that the Colonel would look better after they got him cleaned up and bandaged, but it really hadn’t helped much. The bandage hid the cut, but John’s eye was badly swollen now, black and purple standing out sharply against his pale skin.

“Bit nauseous,” John said reluctantly, after taking a while to process Ronon’s question. Ronon mentally translated that to read as “might throw up at any second.”

“Sorry, Sheppard.” Ronon gave John a sympathetic shrug. “We don’t really have another option.”

“I know,” John said with a sigh. He made a face at the energy drink, then shrugged and tipped his head back, pouring the contents of the can down his throat. Gagging slightly, he crumpled the can and motioned for another one.

“Better if I don’t think about it,” he choked out, and Ronon nodded with admiration as he handed his friend another can.

John drank the second can the same way, in a single practiced movement that Ronon knew spoke to John’s experience with caffeinating himself as efficiently as possible. He swallowed hard, but didn’t look too close to vomiting yet. Ronon thought he could handle at least one more.

“Can I have a little water?” John asked shakily, putting a hand to his head. “Just to...you know...wash it down….”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Ronon asked. John was looking pretty pale, and Ronon didn’t want to increase his chances of vomiting before the third Monster. He was clearly exhausted, and Ronon thought if he didn’t have enough caffeine he would fall asleep for sure, the second Ronon stopped looking. 

“Yeah,” John said. “Water’s...you know, I think it’s supposed to be good for headaches….”

That sounded true enough. Ronon could think of lots of times he’d had a headache that had been helped by drinking water. He got John a glass from the sink in the bathroom, and allowed John to pause the Monsters while he got some water in his system.

“You ready for the next Monster?” Ronon asked when he was done, taking the glass away from him.

John shook his head. 

“ _ Sheppard _ ,” Ronon said threateningly.

“I don’t want it.” Sheppard sounded petulant, but Ronon supposed it was just the pain. 

“You need the energy. You wouldn’t want to fall asleep. You know what Beckett says about that.”  
Ronon did not know exactly what Beckett said about that, and he hoped that John didn’t call him on it. John, however, seemed far too sick and exhausted to call him on much of anything. He just held his hand out for the next can of Monster, grimacing slightly as he did it.

Ronon watched John drink the last can carefully, and was both impressed and somewhat surprised when it didn’t come right back up. The caffeine from the first can must be starting to enter John’s bloodstream by now. That...that had to be good.

“Alright,” Ronon said once that was finished. “I’m going to need to borrow one of your shirts now.”

John looked up at him in glassy-eyed confusion. “You need...what?”

Ronon sighed. “You bled on my shirt. A lot. And I don’t wanna just be not wearing a shirt.”

John made a face. “Any of my shirts...probably won’t fit you.”

If he hadn’t looked so despondent, Ronon would have laughed. He and Sheppard only had a couple of inches in terms of a height difference, but Ronon knew he was far bulkier than the slender pilot. He also knew that it bothered John, at least a little, and he looked as though even admitting that they weren’t the same size had cost him a fair amount of pride.

“I know, buddy,” Ronon said. “But I can’t exactly leave to go get my own shirt. You’ll fall asleep, or die, or something.”

John sighed heavily, and waved a shaking hand in the direction of his chest of drawers. “Uhh, try the...bottom drawer. Air Force stuff. Kinda big on me.”

Ronon nodded, turning his attention momentarily away from John. “Don’t throw up,” he warned.

“I know,” John whispered.

* * *

John definitely might throw up. He didn’t want to, he  _ really _ didn’t want to, in fact. He’d thrown up with a concussion before, and it always made his head hurt worse. And John did not want to make his head hurt any worse. But he was starting to think he wasn’t going to have much of a choice.

John hiccupped uncomfortably and concentrated all of his energy on keeping the Monster in his stomach, where it belonged. He closed his eyes, but that made it worse. Then he was focusing on his nausea and his headache and how the world seemed to be spinning even with his eyes shut, and he could feel the bile starting to rise in the back of his throat. Quickly, he opened them again.

Maybe a distraction would help. He focused on Ronon, who was still sorting through John’s t-shirts. The Satedan grunted his displeasure and sat back, shaking his head.

“You’re too damn skinny, Sheppard.”

“Am not,” John snapped, wishing his voice didn’t sound quite so weak.

“Are too.”

John opened his mouth to answer back, then clamped it shut as his stomach twisted alarmingly. He clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowing a few times. It didn’t help.

“‘M gonna throw up.”

“That’s not gonna make you be less skinny.”

“‘M throwin’ up,” John mumbled, and staggered off the bed, hurrying as quickly as he could to the bathroom. 

“Oh. You’re...oh.” 

John lurched to a stop in front of the toilet, his shaky legs giving way beneath him. Within a second, he was heaving up all the Monster he had drunk, in addition to possibly everything else he had ever eaten. The throwing up itself was miserable, but he was nearly distracted from it by the fact that it made the pain in his head grow to epic proportions. By the time Ronon came in, he was leaning with his cheek against the toilet rim, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“This is not good, Sheppard,” Ronon said accusingly. 

“I know,” John mumbled. He knew he sounded completely miserable. He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

There was a hand on his shoulder, and then he was being lifted into an upright position. It made his head spin again, but at least he didn’t have to focus on sitting up.

“You done?” Ronon asked.

“Yeah,” John said. He was pretty sure it was true. His stomach was still twisting in on itself, but he thought the Monster must be gone.

“Alright, let’s get you back on your bed. Then you can start drinking Monster again.”

“What?” John said indignantly. Surprise made him open his eyes, and he glared at Ronon angrily, swaying slightly against his hand as he continued to kneel on the bathroom floor.

“You threw up all your caffeine, Shep.”

“Some probably got absorbed,” John mumbled petulantly. But this, he did not think was true. He was so exhausted he was dizzy with it, and all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. 

“Eh, I don’t think so,” Ronon said. Then he grabbed John under the arms and hauled him upright, so John had no choice but to find his own balance or be carried by Ronon. Ronon guided him back to his bed, sat him down, and handed him another can. John eyed it doubtfully. Just the sight of it made him want to vomit again.

“I am not gonna drink this,” he announced. 

“You gotta,” Ronon said. “Or you’ll die.”

Ronon took the can from John and popped the tab. John put a shaky hand to his temple and wondered if this whole plan had been a mistake. Ronon shoved the can into his other hand, and John frowned at it. Reluctantly, he took a small sip.

“Faster,” Ronon urged.

John set his jaw and glared up at Ronon, ignoring how much the angle hurt his eyes. He wished that he could get up and stand face-to-face with the Satedan, but he thought that if he tried, he might fall over. He settled for narrowing his eyes as much as he could with the swollen ache from his black eye.

“No,” he said. “I’ll drink it. Slow.”

Ronon growled and raked his hands backwards through his dreadlocks. “You gotta drink it fast, Sheppard. For the caffeine. Do it.”

“‘F I do,” John explained, filling his voice with false patience, “‘M gonna throw up again. I...I’ll throw up on you.”

“It’s your shirt,” Ronon pointed out, crossing his arms over the Air Force logo on John’s t-shirt.

John scowled. “Don’ care.” He continued to glare at Ronon, daring him to push harder. Even concussed,  _ especially _ concussed, no one was going to out-stubborn John.

“Fine,” Ronon snapped. “Don’t blame me when you’re tired later.”

John was tired now. He was so tired that it felt like weights had been taped to his eyelids, dragging them down. That was the only reason he’d agreed to drink even this Monster, fighting to hold the nausea at bay long enough to get some caffeine into his bloodstream. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

Ronon watched John carefully as he sipped at the energy drink. It took him about fifteen minutes to finish it, but by the end, he no longer looked quite as much at risk of instantly throwing it back up. The smallest amount of color had come back to his cheeks, and Ronon thought it was possible that his uneven eyes looked a tiny bit brighter. 

“Better?” Ronon asked, taking the empty can from John’s unresisting fingers.

“Little bit,” John replied, sounding almost painfully hopeful. He blinked, and though he seemed to be in a bit less pain, Ronon could see how tired he was in how slowly he was moving, in the downward drag of his eyelids.

Sheppard really should have another Monster. It was clear that he was utterly exhausted, and if Ronon wanted him to be able to stay awake, then he would need more caffeine. 

Unfortunately, Ronon didn’t think he could do that to John. He obviously still felt sick, and every sip of the can he’d just finished had looked like a struggle. If Ronon got him to drink another, he’d almost certainly throw up.

And that wasn’t an option. Ronon would just have to find another way to keep John awake, some kind of distraction….

A movie. That was the perfect idea. Sheppard loved movies, and that would certainly keep him awake and engaged. He wouldn’t dare fall asleep during a movie.

Five minutes later, he had John’s laptop all set up to play  _ Jaws,  _ a movie Ronon knew John enjoyed. Five minutes after that, before the first person had even died, John was groaning in pain, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Ronon asked. He figured it was polite to ask before just turning off the movie, even though it was clear that something was.

John hissed in pain, looking away. “It’s the light or somethin’...it’s hurtin’ my head….”

“Fuck,” Ronon said, lunging for the laptop. He slammed it closed. Now that John had said it, Ronon was sure he remembered Beckett saying the light of a screen was bad for someone who had a concussion. He couldn’t remember if it led to permanent damage, or if it simply led to pain. But either way, there was no way Ronon would be keeping John awake with a movie. 

“Why’d ya do that?” John asked.

“Not supposed to look at screens. Sorry, Sheppard, I forgot.”

John frowned, but didn’t say anything, just kept his head buried in his hand. Ronon waited what he felt like was an appropriate amount of time for John to suggest a replacement activity, and then asked John if he wanted to play cards. John didn’t actually say yes, but he didn’t say no either, and that was good enough for Ronon.

Go Fish was the only card game Ronon knew that didn’t involve money changing hands, but as it turned out, even that was too much for John. John kept forgetting which cards he had already asked about, and it was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere. By the time he had asked Ronon if he had any eights for the third time, Ronon knew it was time to call it. If John couldn’t even follow the game, it was going to be no help in keeping him awake.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Ronon said. He figured that since John couldn’t watch a movie, this was probably the next best thing.

John narrowed his eyes. “A story from Sateda?” he asked curiously.

Ronon shrugged. “Not sure yet. Maybe.”

John nodded slightly, inviting Ronon to continue.

“It was raining,” Ronon began dramatically. “And there were cars everywhere. I was standing outside of a big cage.”

John nodded again, looking sleepy, and Ronon figured he better hurry this along. If he didn’t start getting into some action soon, John was surely going to fall asleep.

“Suddenly, she  _ pounced _ ,” Ronon said, just barely stopping himself from shouting in time. John’s eyes widened softly.

“Who?”

“The giant lizard,” Ronon whispered. “She tore a man clean in half. Blood everywhere, gushing out, into this huge puddle on the ground. And the screams….”

He had John’s attention now. The Colonel’s eyes were locked on him, at least as well as they could be under the circumstances. Slowly, John brought his knees up, crossing his arms on top of them and resting his chin on his wrists. He blinked at Ronon, clearly trying very hard to pay attention.

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“Now I’m in a desert,” Ronon announced. “There are bones everywhere, like a giant graveyard. And I’m digging them up and showing them to kids.”

John frowned. “Do the kids like being shown a lot of bones?”

Ronon shook his head. “Not really. They’re either bored or scared.”

“Oh,” John whispered. He blinked again, but this time his eyes stayed closed for longer. Ronon was losing him. He would have to skip ahead.

“Listen close,” Ronon told him. “This next bit is good.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic really is just a series of increasingly bizarre schemes that Ronon and John come up with in an attempt to keep John's concussion hidden. I really wanted to capture how stupid the two can sometimes be when they're together - I feel like it can be easy to forget how young Ronon is! 
> 
> I also wanted write a lot of angsty, plot-heavy fics, but I really wanted the chance to write something lighter and sillier here, as well as have a vehicle for some of my weird headcanons.


	3. Chapter 3

John was having a hard time following Ronon's story. He knew that he was very concussed, but he still thought it might not be entirely his fault. Ronon might just be confusing. The story seemed to have taken a number of bizarre turns, and unless John was very much mistaken, Ronon had already died twice.

"It's still raining. All of a sudden, the ground is shaking. I'm trapped inside a car," Ronon said. "She's coming back."

"Who?"

"The giant lizard," Ronon said impatiently. "She's gonna _eat_ me."

"Oh. Right," John muttered, desperately trying to figure out how they'd gotten to this point.

"I'm really scared," Ronon said. "And the monster is coming closer, and closer, and closer…."

Ronon trailed off, clearing his throat. "All of a sudden, I see light. Red light. I don't like it. I roar, and then I see who's waving it. Tall, skinny guy, all in black. I run towards him."

John frowned, rubbing at his forehead. "Wait. Are you the monster now?"

"Yes," Ronon answered. "And I want to eat the skinny guy."

Something about this seemed awfully familiar. "Hold up a sec'nd. 'S this... _Jurassic Park?_ "

"Yeah," Ronon said as though it were obvious. "You didn't know?"

John did not find this to be obvious. It had not occurred to him at any point that Ronon might not, in fact, be telling a story that had happened to him.

"I need to sleep," he informed Ronon.

"That's not allowed," Ronon said, and then opened his mouth as if to steamroll on with the story.

"Ronon, please," John begged. "'M so tired. I didn't even realize you were talking about _Jurassic Park_ until you were like fifteen minutes in."

"You know you can't do that. You're concussed."

Even having this argument was making John's head pound worse. All he wanted to do was lie down and rest for a little bit. Maybe if he didn't have to focus so hard on everything, the world would stop spinning.

"Please," John said. "It'll only be for an hour or two. You can keep wakin' me up to ask me questions if you want. 'M pretty sure that's what Beckett does."

Ronon frowned, but seemed to recognize that he wasn't going to get anywhere arguing with John. "Fine," he said. "You can sleep for a little. But I'm gonna wake you up every half hour."

"Sounds fair to me," John mumbled, lying back on his bed. He was still in the same clothes he had worn to spar, he hadn't brushed his teeth, and he couldn't seem to muster the energy to get under his covers. But none of that mattered. He was so exhausted that nothing else seemed to matter at all.

"I still don't think this is a good idea," Ronon said.

John hummed slightly and closed his eyes.

"You might die in your sleep."

John ignored him and rolled over. Within a few minutes, he was asleep.

* * *

Ronon didn't get any sleep at all. John had said he should be woken every half hour, so that is what Ronon did. John could be woken up, at least, and Ronon figured that was something. Although to be honest, he wasn't completely sure how awake John actually was. Whenever he woke John, he could get him to answer a few mumbled questions, like his name and rank, and that was about it. He seemed barely able to keep his eyes open longer than a few seconds.

But at around six in the morning, the time John and Ronon typically went on their daily run, Ronon knew that something had to change. In just under an hour, Rodney and Teyla would be expecting Sheppard for their usual breakfast in the mess hall. And they were certainly expecting a version of Sheppard who could keep his eyes open and hold a conversation.

Clearly, if they wanted to keep Sheppard's secret, Ronon would have to be watching him near-constantly. He'd have to put John through the paces of a normal day, and hopefully they could keep him mostly out of sight. Ronon paused as he realized that he had no idea what the hell Sheppard did all day.

Sighing, Ronon shook John's shoulder. John moaned and shoved at his hand, but Ronon kept prodding until John's eyes blinked lazily open.

"You awake?"

"Nope," John whispered, and flopped over onto his stomach. Ronon watched in dismay as his shoulders relaxed back into sleep. Apparently, he was not going to get anything remotely useful out of Sheppard.

Who else would know John's schedule? Ronon had to get some idea of the Colonel's actual job, or this whole charade would collapse very quickly.

He tapped his comms.

"Hey, McKay? What's Sheppard's daily schedule? And, uh, today specifically."

Rodney's voice over the comms sounded sleepy and annoyed. Ronon had apparently woken him up. That was okay, the scientist could probably stand to wake up a little earlier.

"What?"

"You know it, right?"

"Well, yes," Rodney said, sounding confused. "What do you need it for?"

"Uhh, just 'cause," Ronon muttered evasively. "What is it?"

Ronon swore that he could actually _hear_ the physicist roll his eyes. "Whatever," Rodney mumbled. Ronon grabbed a pen and a notepad from John's desk and prepared to write.

* * *

John did _not_ want to be woken. He didn't feel quite as drained as he had the previous night, but the exhaustion still sat heavy in his bones, and his head was pounding. He felt like he'd barely slept at all, which he supposed made sense, since Ronon had been waking him up every thirty minutes.

"Sheppard, get up."

"No."

"You gotta. We gotta get you ready for breakfast."

John squeezed his eyes shut tighter as vicious light stabbed its way through his lids. "Turn it off," he mumbled.

"No. Get up."

John tried to burrow deeper into his bed, but Ronon's hands were on his shoulders, and before he could resist he was being hauled upright.

"Hey," John yelped indignantly, pushing the Satedan away.

"We need to get ready for breakfast," Ronon informed him. "Or Teyla and Mckay are gonna wonder where you are."

"Tell em I overslept," John mumbled. The pulsing pain in his head was making it hard to think clearly, but he was pretty sure he did not want to attend breakfast. Having Teyla and Rodney try to talk to him sounded absolutely horrible, and the idea of so much as putting a bite of food in his mouth turned his stomach.

"I don't think that's gonna work," Ronon said. "You never oversleep. Plus as soon as you leave this room, everyone's going to be able to see you look terrible."

"Well then I'm never going to leave," John said dramatically, wondering if it would be going too far to pull a pillow over his head.

"You gotta leave at some point, or everyone's gonna know something's wrong."

John groaned. Everything seemed to be getting awfully complicated at this point, and he wasn't sure what to do. If he couldn't leave the room without everyone taking one look at him and knowing something was wrong, then he couldn't leave the room. But if he didn't leave the room, then everyone would know something was wrong because he wasn't there.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" John mumbled, rolling over so he was looking at Ronon.

Ronon peered at him carefully, and then nodded slightly. "Okay," he said, "I think I have an idea. Do you have a hat?"

"A...hat?"

"Yeah, like a baseball hat. We need something to cover the bandage on your head."

John blinked. He was pretty sure that whether or not he currently possessed a baseball hat should be a pretty easy question to answer, but as it was, he was having a difficult time thinking everything through. Did he have a baseball hat? He had certainly owned one on Earth. God, trying to come up with a specific piece of information like this was only making his head pound worse, he didn't know how he was supposed to make it through an entire day of this….

"I think yeah," John finally said. "Bottom drawer."

He closed his eyes again as Ronon started rummaging through his stuff, and he was glad when he heard a triumphant sort of grunt from Ronon. "Found it. This should help."

John cracked his eyes again - Ronon was holding an old _Stanford_ ball cap of John's. John blinked at it, wondering how it had ended up here. He didn't remember packing it, but then, he didn't remember much of anything right now.

"Put it on," Ronon said, holding the hat out. "Maybe it'll hide your black eye, too."

John carefully pulled the hat over the haphazard gauze, wincing as it yanked at the hair trapped between the strands of bandage. He adjusted it, welcoming how much it shielded his eyes from the light. He almost felt a bit better.

"Okay, does it hide the eye?"

Ronon dropped down to John's eye level and squinted at him. "No. Hey, where are your sunglasses?"

"Uhhhhh…." John's aviators had been kept in the same place ever since he'd come to Atlantis, but he couldn't even begin to come up with where they might be.

"Tac vest," Ronon muttered, and managed to produce the sunglasses from the correct pocket after only a few tries. He handed the glasses to John, who stared at them in confusion. What was he supposed to be doing with these?

"Put em on," Ronon said, and to his credit he hardly sounded impatient at all.

"But I'm inside," John whispered. As much as he wanted to put on the sunglasses and filter out as much light as he possibly could, he thought that might seem a little suspicious. "People are gonna notice."

"I know they are, Shep," Ronon told him, unfolding the sunglasses and pushing them towards John again. "We're gonna need a cover story."

John put the sunglasses on, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as the blissful darkness hit. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since the concussion, the light filtering through his closed lids wasn't quite as painful. He took advantage of the brief respite, racking his brain to come up with something that could explain the sunglasses, the hat, and his odd behavior.

"I can't think of anything to tell people," John admitted. "Maybe I should just avoid everyone all day. Or lock myself in my office and pretend I lost the key and can't get out."

Ronon frowned. "Your door doesn't lock like that, it's Ancient tech."

"Fuck," John mumbled. "That was my best option."

"I got something," Ronon announced. "Listen up. Are you listening?"

"Yeah," John said, even deigning to open his eyes and focus on Ronon as best he could.

"Okay, so last night you went on a date, and it went really bad. Like, Rodney McKay level bad. And then you were really embarrassed, which you should be, and you got way too drunk to stop being embarrassed. And now you're hungover. And still embarrassed. Remember to be embarrassed."

John frowned. If Ronon told even one single person this story, John thought he would be very embarrassed indeed.

"I don't really like this cover story," John said.

"Think of a better one then." Ronon's tone of voice told John that Ronon knew he couldn't.

"Fine," John groaned, pushing himself out of bed. He still didn't really like the plan, but he thought that this was it.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Ronon was herding John into the mess hall, and John was walking slowly and looking like he was trying very hard not to throw up. They had already gotten a few weird stares, but luckily so far no questions. However, Ronon knew that would end as soon as they sat down with Rodney and Teyla.

Sure enough, John's appearance at their usual table was met with blank stares. John didn't seem to notice at first - he was too busy concentrating on walking. But Ronon watched Rodney and Teyla exchange a confused, panicked sort of glance, and he knew Sheppard wouldn't be able to catch much of a break.

"Why are you wearing a Stanford hat?" Rodney asked almost immediately. He had a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, but John's appearance had apparently distracted him enough that they were forgotten.

John opened his mouth to answer, but Ronon quickly cut across him - he really didn't want to know what was about to come out of John's mouth. "He got drunk last night."

"What?" Teyla said sharply.

"Yeah," Ronon said, starting to get warmed up. "He had...a date. It went terribly. He acted really awkward, and she was super embarrassed. He asked her if she would want to go on a second date, and she said no. Afterwards, he got drunk. Slammed. And he was so depressed that he, uh...gave himself a haircut. That's why he needs to wear the hat. To hide it from everyone."

"Who was the woman?" Teyla gasped, but Rodney was shaking his head.

"That's all very...that's, um...but what I meant was, why are you wearing a _Stanford_ hat?"

"I went there," John mumbled.

"For...college?"

Ronon didn't understand much about the earth education system, but Sheppard seemed to find this question rather insulting. "No, Rodney, I worked there as a janitor. _Yes, for college._ "

"What was your major?" Rodney asked, looking shocked.

John looked as though he might be thinking, although it was hard to tell behind the sunglasses. Still, it was taking far too long. Ronon thought that it was probably best if Sheppard did as little talking as possible. He could take this question. True, he wasn't entirely sure what a major was, but he thought he remembered Beckett and Zelenka telling him that it was what someone studied in school. He knew a lot about Sheppard, he could probably fill in the blanks.

"Planes." That had to be right, that was what Sheppard talked about the most. He had them all over his room, and about half of his weird sayings that Ronon didn't understand had proven to be about planes.

But Rodney was shaking his head in confusion. Ronon shrugged it off and tried again. "Air Force?"

"Ronon, none of these are real majors, I don't even know why you're talking, I'm asking Sheppard-"

"Aer'nautical engineerin'," John mumbled softly.

Apparently, this was very surprising. Ronon thought Rodney was going to choke on his eggs. After a few seconds of coughing and wheezing and bug-eyed shock, Rodney sputtered into speech.

" _What?_ At _Stanford?_ How did I not know this?"

John shrugged, beginning to look more miserable by the second. "Never came up."

"I can't believe you went to _Stanford_ ," Rodney muttered. "Or that you had a date so bad that you started drinking, and only Ronon found out. Who was it?"

John grimaced, and Ronon realized with a twinge of unease that he hadn't planned that far in advance. He didn't even know who on Atlantis Sheppard might consider going on a date with. As far as he could remember, John mostly talked about things that flew, movies, and fighting, or some combination thereof. The subject of girls didn't come up much.

"Why was it so unpleasant?" Teyla asked, apparently deciding that John felt too embarrassed sharing the girl's name.

"Cause it was a date," John whispered quietly from beside Ronon. Ronon didn't know quite what to do with that, but luckily McKay and Teyla hadn't seemed to hear.

"She thought he was really awkward," Ronon reminded them. "I told you guys. Also, she told him he had stupid hair."

"I don't," John said indignantly.

"That's not what you said last night," Ronon shot back, improvising wildly. "You said she was right, your hair was stupid and confusing and too long. And then you cut it."

John groaned and buried his face in his hands, hat and sunglasses and all. Ronon steamrolled mercilessly on.

"And then you started crying. Cause of the date, or maybe your hair. Which looks a lot dumber now. And then you threw up on me." Ronon turned back to Rodney and Teyla, gesturing to the t-shirt he'd borrowed from Sheppard. "I had to borrow his shirt. I didn't think I should leave him alone, 'cause he was...crying. And also, uhh, throwing up. A lot."

Ronon thought the throwing up sounded believable, at least. Even under the hat and sunglasses, John was looking pretty pale and ill, and he hadn't even bothered with the pretense of getting a plate of food.

Rodney and Teyla exchanged a glance. "Maybe you should see if you can eat a little something," Rodney said, sounding more or less kind. "That will probably make you feel better."

John shook his head.

"Coffee?"

John shook his head again.

"You look like you're falling asleep," Rodney said.

John shrugged.

Ronon took it upon himself to gather up a plate of food that he thought might tempt John. He stacked a plate high with things John usually liked, like sausage and fruit, as well as things he thought John might be able to stomach, like plain toast. But when Ronon arrived back at the table, John just looked at him mournfully.

"I don't want to eat this," he said.

"You have to," Ronon informed him, not wanting to go through the ordeal with the Monster all over again.

John was apparently thinking of a different ordeal caused by the Monster, and he swallowed visibly. Tentatively, he picked up the piece of toast and took a few small bites. Ronon considered trying to bully him into eating more, but a glance at Teyla's horrified, sympathetic expression told him that he should probably leave Sheppard alone for the time being.


	4. Chapter 4

John knew Rodney could be a loud talker, but it had never once bothered him until today. Now, he felt like his friend was all but screaming in his ear, and his head was throbbing so badly he could hardly keep his eyes open. The smells of all the different foods were making him horribly queasy, and it was all he could do to keep the single bite of bread in his stomach.

He would have been praying for breakfast to end, except that he knew that after breakfast came his daily meeting with Weir. He was fairly sure that if he couldn't manage to answer Rodney's basic questions, then he definitely wouldn't be able to hold a conversation about the running of Atlantis.

John spent the rest of the meal alternately worrying about his upcoming meeting with Elizabeth and poking at his unwanted breakfast in the hopes of fooling Ronon. Finally, Rodney rolled his eyes and grabbed John's plate.

"You aren't going to eat this, are you?" Rodney asked.

"Nope," John whispered, hoping that if he lowered his voice far enough, Rodney would get the hint and respond in kind.

Rodney did not, and instead began loudly talking about something that Zelenka had done. John squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on keeping his solitary mouthful of toast where it belonged, and he didn't open them again until he felt Ronon jostle his shoulder.

"Sheppard, isn't it time for your meeting?"

John didn't bother to check his watch. Ronon probably knew what was going on, and if he didn't, then John was just going to have to accept the consequences. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly until he steadied himself with a hand on the table. Rodney and Teyla were looking at him with horrified pity in their eyes, and John suddenly wanted to die of embarrassment. He promised himself that no matter what, he was going to think of a better cover story before talking to Elizabeth.

"You're going to meet with Weir, right Sheppard?" John blinked at him in panicked confusion. Hadn't Ronon just said that? Why was Ronon asking him? Was John supposed to be the one who knew what was going on?

"Yes?" John squeaked.

"Oh. What a...coincidence. I'm headin' that way too. Uhh, let's go."

"Ohhhh," John murmured. "I mean, yeah. Let's."

Ronon prodded him again, and John moved away from the table. He managed a brief wave back at Rodney and Teyla, thankful that his vision was still too blurry to properly make out their expressions.

The walk to Elizabeth's office felt interminable, although thinking back, John couldn't think of a single actual memory. It was just a vague blur of pain, confusion, and nausea, and when John ended up outside of Elizabeth's door he wasn't entirely sure how he'd got there.

"Good luck," Ronon said. "I'll wait out here."

John nodded slightly, wondering if there was any way he could invite the Satedan into the meeting with him without getting in trouble.

"Come in, John," Elizabeth said. "I need to...oh."

John had entered the room as soon as he was invited, but Elizabeth had cut off as soon as he had stepped through her door. She was staring at him with shock and horror, and John looked down at his feet, already unsure how to salvage this.

"John, what...what happened?"

John realized abruptly that he had completely forgotten to think of another cover story. "I'm...hungover," he said slowly, wincing as soon as the word was out of his mouth.

" _Colonel,"_ Elizabeth said sharply.

John realized he was very likely about to be yelled at. And that he probably completely deserved it. He tried to think through what few options he had for salvaging this situation, wondering if he could possibly just leave now and not attend the meeting at all.

"I went on a date," John said miserably. It wasn't exactly what he had meant to say, but it was all that he could think of. "It didn't go very well."

"John," Weir said slowly, and she still sounded mad but maybe also now slightly sympathetic. "That's...I'm sorry to hear that. Is that why you're wearing the hat?"

"I cut my hair," John said sadly. He wished Ronon had come up with any other excuse. Now this was all he was going to be able to remember the whole day. He was going to have to repeat it to who knows how many people. Possibly, he was going to have to cut his hair. This situation was just getting worse and worse.

"You cut your hair?" Weir asked curiously.

"When I was drunk. And...sad. I don't know, I just...cut it."

"Who was the woman?" Weir asked him.

John blinked at her for a moment. He could only remember one woman's name. "Um, her name was

Elizabeth," he said, knowing even as he said it that any other answer would have been better.

Weir frowned. "Fine, if you don't want to tell me, that's...fine." She straightened some papers on her desk, looking annoyed.

John didn't know what to say. He couldn't exactly insist that he wasn't lying. He also couldn't come up with the name of another girl, one that he had actually gone on a date with.

"Um…."

"And in the future, I would prefer if you didn't drink to this point, seeing as there are things you need to be doing during the day. Regardless of how your...dates go."

"Um, noted," John said.

"Alright, then," Weir said, giving him another slightly disappointed glance. "Now, about your rearrangement of the offworld teams…."

John tried to pay attention. He really did. He stared at Elizabeth from behind his sunglasses, desperately trying to lock her words into his head. He had to listen, if he couldn't even manage to do this simple part of his job, Weir really would be angry at him. And she would have every right to be.

"John?"

"Mmm?" John asked, trying to sound as though he were alert and attentive. Desperately, he scanned his mind for anything Elizabeth had said in the past minute or two. He came up blank.

Weir's eyes narrowed, and John shifted uncomfortably. Even concussed, he recognized when the expedition leader was angry.

"Why don't we adjourn this for now?" Weir asked. John was just relieved that it hadn't been worse. He nodded, standing up so fast that he almost fell over.

"'M sorry," John mumbled to the ground, and escaped from the room before Weir could say anything more.

"How'd it go?" Ronon asked, unfolding from his position against the wall and steadying John as he wobbled.

"Terrible," John answered despondently. "Couldn't think of anything to tell her, an' now Elizabeth thinks 'm hungover. An' stupid."

"Oh well. At least you're not hungover. Just a little stupid," Ronon said, apparently attempting to be comforting.

John did not find this to be comforting in the slightest. Sighing softly, he reached up behind the sunglasses and gingerly touched his swollen eye, which was starting to ache again. Even the light pressure of his fingertips hurt the tender skin, and he hissed slightly and pulled his hand away.

"Still hurts?" Ronon asked sympathetically. John shot him a wary glance out of the corner of his undamaged eye. He was sure that Ronon knew he was in pain, probably everyone who passed him knew he was in pain. Still, that didn't mean John had to admit it. His pride was still stinging from Ronon's humiliating hangover story, and John was desperate to regain even the smallest amount of control.

"Nope," John said softly, and straightened up as much as he could.

Ronon snorted. "Yeah, right. C'mon, let's get you out of the hallway and maybe you'll feel better."

Without waiting for an answer, Ronon took hold of John's arm and began steering him down the hallway. John frowned. He thought he probably should know where they were going, since they were following his schedule, but it was all he could do just to keep walking.

"Where 'r we goin'?"

"To sleep," Ronon said. "But I'll have to keep waking you up every half hour."

"Really?" John said. The idea of getting a chance to rest again was almost worth the embarrassing and horrible encounter with Elizabeth.

"Yeah," Ronon said. "Got your schedule from Rodney this morning, and he said now you sleep in your office until eleven."

John groaned. "Damnit, Mckay," he whispered. "Ronon, I do not spend all morning sleepin' in my office, despite what Rodney might think."

"So what are you going to do?" Ronon asked curiously.

John shrugged helplessly, wincing as even that slight moment made his headache spike. "Paperwork?"

Ronon didn't say anything. John glanced up at him - the Satedan was starting at him in disbelief.

"What?" John asked.

"You're going to do _paperwork_?"

"It's my _job,_ " John said. He was pretty sure they were supposed to be convincing everyone that he was still a functional Military Commander, despite a momentary lapse in judgement, and that certainly necessitated keeping up with his paperwork.

"Whatever, Shep."

* * *

Ronon didn't know much about paperwork. He had only filled out a handful of mission reports. The first time, John had patiently corrected the errors in spelling and formatting, and pointed out all the sections he had missed. The second time, John had done the same thing, but not quite so patiently. After that, everyone, including Weir, seemed to have more or less given up. Ronon couldn't even remember the last time he had even had to write something down on a piece of paper.

But even with his distinct lack of experience, Ronon still knew enough about paperwork to be pretty sure John's was going badly. John seemed to be spending most of the time just staring at the screen. Sometimes, he would shift his gaze so he was staring at the floor. His hands were on his lap, so Ronon was pretty confident he wasn't actually writing anything down.

Still, Ronon wasn't exactly an expert. Maybe this is how Sheppard always did paperwork. Maybe he sat and stared into space while he gathered his thoughts, and then he would spring into action and do the bulk of the paperwork quickly.

Ronon shook his head sadly as John's hat drooped closer to the screen, then jerked back up with a start. If he was being honest, he just didn't want to make Sheppard do any more work than he absolutely had to. The man was clearly hurting, despite all of his protests to the contrary, and Ronon found himself wishing that John really did have a three hour nap scheduled.

Ronon was saved from having to rouse Sheppard and put him back to work by a knock at the door. A Marine, one Ronon didn't recognize, stuck his head around the door.

"Uh, sir?"

There was a long pause from John, who was still staring at the floor. Finally, Ronon cleared his throat.

"Yeah?"

"Umm, Colonel Sheppard? I was just wondering if we could put in a request for the Daedalus to bring...um…."

"Spit it out, kid," Ronon said, not unkindly. John finally managed to look up, mumbling his agreement.

"We were hoping for some more Earth food," the young Marine said hesitantly. "That isn't MREs. Chips, maybe candy…."

"Doritos," Ronon muttered, thinking of the snacks Sheppard occasionally brought out on movie night.

John blanched, looking queasy. "I'll look into it. Uhh, shut the door on your way out, okay?"

"Perez is waiting, sir. Something about misplaced equipment." The young Marine saluted and left, revealing a far more terrified-looking Marine lurking behind him. To Sheppard's credit, he only looked completely overwhelmed for an instant.

Perez stepped into the office and immediately began pouring out a long and convoluted story about missing Wraith stunners and whose turn it was to check the armory. Ronon tuned it out, instead watching Sheppard to make sure that he didn't pass out or throw up in front of his subordinate.

"So what should I do, sir?" Perez asked, finally wrapping up his lengthy story.

"Ummm," John said quietly, and then visibly brightened. "You should go talk to Dr. Weir."

"Alright sir," Perez said, and immediately left. John looked satisfied.

Over the next hour or so, Ronon watched John send a nearly endless stream of Marines to go take their problems up with Weir. The Marines seemed to be dealing with everything from misplaced rations to malfunctioning Jumpers to personality conflicts with a certain unnamed scientist that Ronon suspected might be Rodney. With each new Marine, John spent a small amount of time listening to their concerns and complaints, and then quickly sent them off to see Elizabeth. Ronon thought that this was not how John usually dealt with his men's problems, but he also thought that John should possibly start dealing with everyone's problems this way. It would save a lot of time.

In between Marines coming in to ask questions, John continued to stare at the computer. He did not type or click any buttons. He seemed to be trying to both speak and move as little as possible.

"You alright?" Ronon asked during a lull in Marines.

"Yeah," John said. Ronon knew that meant he actually wasn't alright.

"You supposed to be sending all these people to Weir?" he asked.

"No." Ronon knew that meant he _really_ wasn't alright.

"Your head hurt?" Ronon asked.

John swallowed hard, looking a little green, and opened his mouth to answer. But before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Probably another Marine.

Ronon was about to tell the Marine to come in when John held up a panicked hand.

"Give me a second," he gasped.

"What's wrong?"

Ronon's question was answered a second later when John lurched off his chair and lunged for the wastebasket in the corner of his office.

There wasn't much in his stomach - just the one can of Monster he had managed to keep down and a few bites of toast. But even after he was done vomiting, he was wracked by painful-looking dry heaves. Ronon watched sympathetically, unsure what he could do to help. He'd had enough concussions to know how hard they could be on a person's system, but there wasn't exactly much he could do about that.

Ronon hoped the Marine couldn't hear John gagging. He wondered if he should go out into the hallway and send the Marine to Elizabeth preemptively.

After what seemed like an eternity, John sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.

"You done?" Ronon asked.

"Dunno," John said, picking up the trash can and hugging it to his chest as he made his way gingerly back to his chair.

"How much paperwork you gotten done?" Ronon asked cautiously.

"None," John said miserably, looking down at the floor.

That was about what Ronon had expected. He leaned over the desk, plucking the laptop from John's unresisting fingers. Before John had a chance to start protesting, Ronon stuck his head out the door, glaring down at the Marine waiting outside.

"Leave," he said shortly.

"But, I need-"

"Talk to Weir. Sheppard's busy." Ronon shut the door in the young man's face, careful not to slam it. With the state John was in, a sudden sound might set him off again.

"R'non, give it back," John mumbled, still wrapped around the trash can and not looking as though he had any plans to actually take the laptop back.

"No," Ronon said bluntly.

"But I have to do my _job_." John sounded awfully close to a whine, but Ronon chose to overlook it. After Ronon's cover story had snowballed, he felt John probably deserved a little whining.

"Not right now, you don't," Ronon said, giving John a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Just concentrate on not throwing up. I'll do your paperwork."

"You hate doin' paperwork," John whispered.

"Just this once. Okay?"

"'Kay," John said softly, staring into the depths of the trash can. Ronon examined the scene, frowning. He couldn't keep the Marines out forever, or they would get suspicious. But if he let them in now, they would be greeted by Sheppard staring blankly at his empty desk, which also seemed suspicious.

Reaching around John, who didn't seem to notice, Ronon rifled through John's desk drawers and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He didn't look at what was on them, he didn't think it much mattered. He put them on the desk in front of John, uncapped a pen, and laid it beside them.

"Don't do anything with these," Ronon told John sternly. "It's just so if anyone comes in, you can pick up the pen and look busy."

"Smart," John said, sounding impressed. Ronon beamed and retreated to John's spare chair to begin tackling the incomprehensible maze of paperwork.

* * *

John hugged his trash can closer and swallowed tentatively. He felt a bit better now that he wasn't staring at the computer screen, although his stomach was still tipping unpleasantly. Probably, if there was anything left in his stomach to come back up, it already would have.

"Hey, Shep, what's a 'requisition order?' Is that anythin' like an interrogation?"

"Umm, no," John said, not bothering to look up from the trash can. "Nothing like an interrogation."

There was a pause. "Oh. I should probably redo that one, then."

"Ronon-"

"Don't worry about it, Shep. I've got this."

Ronon started writing frantically, his pencil skidding across the page.

John closed his eyes. He was starting to really think this was a bad idea. He felt terrible, and it wasn't even lunch time yet. The idea of making it through the entire rest of the day seemed horribly overwhelming.

"What's the name of that new Marine who kept talking back to me during the training?" Ronon asked.

"Um, Countryman, I think," John said. He heard more frantic scribbling, and a pit of nervousness started to grow in his stomach. "Why?"

"No reason."

"Are you filling out performance reviews?" John asked anxiously.

There was a long pause. "...no."

"Ronon, please, at least let me fill out those. You probably don't even know half of my men's names."

"I don't need all of em."

" _Ronon!"_ John forced his eyes open. He wanted to glare angrily at Ronon, but he thought the effect was likely slightly ruined by the fact that he was holding a trash can and he could barely keep his head up.

"Don't worry about it," Ronon said.

"Let me see what you're writing," John demanded. As much as he didn't want to do paperwork, he didn't want to end up with any of his men fired because Ronon had personal vendettas against them.

"No."

" _Ronon_ …."

"I'm not done yet."

John glared at him, and he guessed that even sick and hurt he must look threatening, because Ronon slid a piece of paper across the desk to him.

"This is the last thing I filled out. Don't read it if it's gonna make you puke."

"I'm concussed, not carsick."

"Well reading the forms on your laptop made you puke."

John supposed he couldn't argue with that. Still, he grabbed the piece of paper in front of him, turning it around so he could look at Ronon's writing. It was hard to read, written in straggling block letters that meandered across the page. Still, mortifyingly enough, it was actually easier to decipher than John's own handwriting.

John squinted at what Ronon had written, sighing as he noticed that "Countryman" was very badly misspelled indeed, and the rank appeared to be nothing more than a wild guess.

"'Asshole' isn't a rank in the Air Force, Ronon."

Ronon snorted. "Have you _talked_ to him? It should be."

John ignored him for the moment, scanning the rest of the document. "You can't add new things to the bubbles, buddy. Like, the lowest is 'poor,' not 'makes me want to kill myself.' And I always rate everyone as 'above expectations' anyway."

"Not this guy," Ronon said ominously.

"'Further comments,'" John read aloud, squinting at Ronon's messy block of capitals. "'Ship him back to Earth on the...Ded-all-us?...asap. He SUCKS and is mean to my good buddy Ronon Dex who I like way better than some dumb Marine. Also, Ronon should get a raise and be allowed to keep a tiger on Atlantis cuz that would be pretty cool.' Ronon, how many of these talk about you?"

"Umm…."

John whimpered softly and carefully lowered his head to rest on top of the desk, ignoring the sunglasses cutting painfully into the bridge of his nose. This...this was too much to deal with. All he wanted to do was lie here for the rest of the day, possibly the rest of his life. He didn't want to deal with Ronon's paperwork, or any of the rest of his team, who now thought that he had _cried_ _and cut his hair_ over a date. Was it too late to run away? Maybe when he was a little less concussed, he could remember the list of uninhabited planets and gate to one of them, and he would never have to talk to anyone ever again.

Ronon made a worried sound in the back of his throat, and John heard him shift around and stand. John didn't bother to look up, instead covering the top of his head with his arms. He was never moving again.


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, come on, Shep, I'm sorry. I'll do it right this time, promise. I won't even put in myself anymore."

John felt a tentative pat on his shoulder, and then Ronon cleared his throat. "What do you wanna rate Sergeant Chu?"

"Exc'llent," John mumbled into his desk, blinking into the darkness behind his sunglasses. Ronon returned to scribbling, and John closed his eyes and let himself drift, until the tap at the door.

"Sir?"

Unsurprisingly, it was another Marine. He probably wanted to know some information that John either didn't have or couldn't remember, and John wished he would just leave.

But John didn't find out what the Marine wanted, because as soon as he saw Ronon sitting at John's desk, filling out paperwork, it was clear that every thought of his initial question disappeared from his mind.

"Is that...Ronon Dex?" the Marine asked.

"Yeah," Ronon growled before John could answer. He continued writing, but he managed to make it somehow more threatening.

The Marine craned his neck to get a look at what Ronon was writing on. John supposed it looked an awful lot like paperwork. And even though he knew he would eventually have to redo pretty much everything Ronon wrote, he still didn't want his men thinking that he allowed Ronon Dex to fill out paperwork for him.

"What was your question?" John mumbled.

"What...what is Ronon writing?"

"He's doing pa-" frantically trying to think of something he could say that wasn't paperwork made his brain hurt, "...a podcast. He's, um, doing a podcast. He's writing a podcast."

"A podcast," the Marine said.

"Yeah," Ronon growled.

"What is the...podcast about?" the Marine asked cautiously.

"Fighting," John said.

"Stupid shit Sheppard does," Ronon muttered at the same time.

The Marine nodded slowly, eyeing Ronon out of the corner of his eye.

"It's about all the times I've fought Sheppard because he's stupid," Ronon said. "Also, if you don't have something important to say you should leave."

"I-"

"Sheppard had a bad date last night. He got drunk and now he's really hungover. He doesn't want to talk to you."

The Marine looked shocked.

"I'm sorry," Ronon added diplomatically.

" _Ronon!_ " John started to say, but the Marine had already backed out the door. "Goddamnit."

Ronon cocked his head at John, looking confused. "What's the problem? Got rid of him, didn't I? I even said sorry."

John closed his eyes. "Please stop telling my men I'm hungover cause I had a bad date," he said, trying to sound firm. He did not. He sounded pathetic.

"It's just a story," Ronon said, shrugging.

" _They don't know that_ ," John hissed. He lowered his head back to the desk. "It's humiliating."

Ronon mumbled something that sounded apologetic. "I'll stop talking about the date. Uhh, but it might be a bit late for that."

John sighed heavily. Ronon was right, it was probably all over the city by now, and had likely morphed into something somehow worse. He didn't even want to think about what his more loudmouthed men were saying about the state of their Military Commander.

John's comms crackled in his ear, and he just barely bit back a whimper at the unexpected sound. Screwing his eyes shut and dreading whatever was on the other end, he tapped the button to answer.

"Sheppard."

"John. Come to my office, please."

John winced. Elizabeth sounded _mad._ He racked his brain for what he could have done now, but all he could think of was Ronon's stupid cover story. Maybe one of the Marines had tacked something else on, something that made him look even worse. Maybe someone had told Elizabeth that John wasn't actually doing work, but was writing a podcast with Ronon. Maybe someone had overheard John puking into the trash can, or had somehow connected that John didn't quite seem hungover, and now Elizabeth was going to _yell_ at him and make him go see Carson and all of this would have been for nothing.

"When?" John asked, hoping that she would say "tomorrow" or "a week from now, for a meeting."

"Now," Weir said, and the comms disconnected.

"What was that about?" Ronon asked.

"Think 'm gonna get yelled at," John said sadly. Slowly, he raised himself out of the chair, pausing as his head spun, the room circling dizzily around him. His stomach lurched, and he put a hand over his mouth. He took a cautious step, stumbling as his boots caught on...the carpet? The air? Each other?

In an instant, Ronon was there, grabbing his upper arms and steadying him. John was embarrassed, but he was also grateful for the sudden support. If things had gotten bad enough that he could hardly walk on his own then...things had gotten bad.

John managed to make it to Elizabeth's office mostly under his own power, with Ronon just trailing along behind and occasionally prodding him if he was too slow. Once he was outside of Elizabeth's office, he paused nervously. His head was pounding, and he _really_ did not want to be yelled at.

"Come in," Weir said. She sounded mad. But John went in.

"What is it?" John asked cautiously. He could think of many things that he deserved to be yelled at for, each one worse than the last.

"Why have you been sending so many Marines to my office?" she asked. "John, you know I don't have time to deal with this…."

John did know. He was fully aware that Elizabeth was very busy, and didn't want to have to deal with the problems John was supposed to be solving on top of her own. But he wasn't sure what else to do. It wasn't as if he could just answer the Marines' questions.

"I...haven't...been," John said slowly. It was all he could come up with. Maybe she would believe they were just finding their way to her office by themselves.

"Sheppard!" Weir exclaimed. Her voice, while not particularly loud, was making him feel like he had a spike being driven through his forehead. He cringed backwards, wincing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please don't yell."

Elizabeth took a deep breath and seemed to soften slightly. "Colonel, please try to pull yourself together. I know you don't feel well, but this...don't send me any more Marines. Alright?"

"Alright," John mumbled. He backed out of her office before she had a chance to change her mind.

Ronon was waiting outside for him. "Did she yell at you?" he asked.

In Sheppard's mind, he'd really gotten off pretty light. "Less than I deserved."

Ronon frowned. "Nah. Let's get you back to your office."

The walk back to John's office felt like it took a thousand years, and by the time Ronon was opening the door for him, it was all he could do just to stay upright. Ronon sat him down at the desk, and then John felt something hard and cool being pressed into his hand.

He looked down. It was a can of Monster.

"Ronon, I don't need this," John whispered. "I need to sleep."

"I don't think that's allowed," Ronon said. "But this will help."

John's stomach was tilting ominously at the idea of even taking a single sip. He very much doubted it would help.

"Come on," Ronon coaxed. He popped the tab and handed it back to John.

"I would rather get some sleep."

"You can't," Ronon said sympathetically. "Come on, Sheppard. Drink."

* * *

Ronon watched Sheppard raise the can to his lips and take the tiniest possible sip. He couldn't make out much of John's face beneath the hat and the glasses, but the lines of pain around his mouth were a dead giveaway. Sheppard was struggling.

John swallowed his second minute sip of Monster and winced, lips tightening. Hurriedly, he put the can back on the desk and leaned back in his chair, swallowing convulsively. His hand went to his mouth, and Ronon wished that he could help more, but there was nothing he could do. Either Sheppard was going to throw up, or he wasn't.

Finally, John lowered his hand, then his head. He seemed to be staring at the Monster, as if steeling himself to drink more.

Ronon felt that it was about time that Sheppard caught a break. "I guess you can drink it slow."

John winced away from the sound of his voice, actually flinching back in the chair. His hands unconsciously crept up under the hat, massaging at his temples, working their way down behind his ears.

"It really hurts, huh?" Ronon asked him, making sure to lower his voice to a level that wouldn't hurt Sheppard's ears.

"'M okay," John mumbled, but the words were soft and slurred and entirely unbelievable. Ronon rolled his eyes. Sheppard always pulled shit like this, he could be bleeding out in front of the team and he'd still be claiming that it was just a scratch, he was fine, really he was. It could be infuriating, especially when he wouldn't accept help he clearly needed.

Ronon was dimly aware that he tended to do the same thing, but it was different when he did it. Sheppard should know that by now.

"You don't always have to be okay, y'know," Ronon said, a little sharply. "You can barely see. Or walk. Or eat."

"Said 'm okay," John whispered. The can of Monster sat forgotten on his desk, and Ronon watched as he covered his face with his hands, sunglasses and all, as if in a desperate attempt to block out the light. His shoulders curved inward, tensing, and all of a sudden he looked very small.

"You're not okay, Shep," Ronon told him, far more gently this time. "You fucking shouldn't be, either. I fought you. _Me._ If you were okay, it means I'm losin' my touch."

" _Fine,_ " John growled softly into the desk. "My head hurts, okay? Now stop askin'."

"Don't worry," Ronon said. "I still think you're tough."

He gave the exposed back of Sheppard's neck a small pat, and was surprised when John instantly relaxed into the touch.

"Shep-?"

"Your hand's cold," John mumbled. "Why's your hand cold?"

Ronon didn't think his hand was particularly cold. He also didn't think John's neck had been particularly hot - he didn't have a fever or anything - but he was sure the feeling of something cool must be pleasant for him at this point. Ronon was a bit sad that he hadn't thought of it before, because it was something easy for him to do that would help make things easier for Sheppard.

"Dunno," Ronon said. "I'll be right back."

Approximately five minutes later, Ronon was returning to John's office, this time with a bowl of cool water and a washcloth. He wet the cloth and draped it over the back of John's neck. John looked uncomfortable at first, and squirmed slightly, but then seemed to settle.

"It's just a washcloth," Ronon informed him.

"I can tell," John said into the desk.

"I think it's supposed to help with nausea," Ronon said. "Is it working?'

"Mmm," John said softly. "I think yeah."

Ronon nodded, satisfied. "Once you feel a little better, you should try drinkin' some more Monster."

John didn't say anything. But that also meant he wasn't arguing, so Ronon supposed he really must feel better.

"It's also time that you can take more Advil," Ronon informed him. "Once you feel up to it."

"Yay."

"You'll be alright."

"Okay."

Once Ronon thought the cloth on the back of Sheppard's neck must have lost some of its coolness, he switched it out for a new one. John sighed and relaxed further into the desk, his face losing some of its pained tightness for the first time in a while.

Of course, it was then that they heard a knock at the door. John stiffened again, and moved as if to get up.

That was not to be borne. Sheppard had been completely miserable for almost twelve hours now, and Ronon had finally found something that made him feel just a little better. He was not about to let John's rest be interrupted by another idiotic question.

"Don't move," Ronon told John, speaking as softly as he could. "I'll get rid of 'em."

John hummed quietly in acquiescence, and Ronon opened the door a crack, sticking his head out. Lorne and Zelenka greeted him, both scowling at the other.

"Go away," Ronon told them bluntly.

"We can't," Lorne said, glaring at Zelenka. "Not til the doc gets his story straight. Where's the Colonel?"

Ronon looked back over his shoulder, to where John was draped loosely over his desk, arms stretched awkwardly across the surface. He couldn't let them in, and he couldn't send them to Weir, or else Sheppard would get yelled at again.

"We need to consult with Colonel Sheppard on an urgent matter," Zelenka hissed, cleaning his glasses angrily.

This sounded as though it might be important. Ronon sighed, casting another glance at Sheppard. "Fine. You can wait fifteen minutes. Then you can come in."

"But-" Zelenka started. Ronon glowered at the small Czech, who immediately sputtered into silence.

"Fine. Fifteen minutes."

* * *

In Zelenka's professional opinion, it had been far longer than fifteen minutes since Ronon had disappeared back into Sheppard's office. And every single one of those minutes felt like an eternity, filled with infuriating glares from the astoundingly irritating Lorne.

"It is not my fault that the Colonel is hungover," Zelenka finally snapped at the Major.

"He is _not_ ," Lorne said hotly. "You're really all over the place today, Zelenka."

"He is too," Zelenka protested. "He and Ronon fought over a girl, or perhaps the Colonel fell down the stairs while drinking because of the girl. I am unsure which, but there is definitely something wrong with Colonel Sheppard."

"Oh yeah? If he and Ronon fought, how come Ronon is hanging out in his office?"

Zelenka sniffed. "I do not pretend to understand the 'military mind.' Nor do I wish to. You are always hitting one another, it is very hard to tell who is fighting with who."

Lorne looked nearly ready to throw a punch, which Zelenka supposed would just prove the point he'd been trying to make all along, but they were both interrupted when the door to Colonel Sheppard's office opened.

"You can come in now," Ronon informed them. Zelenka and Lorne filed into the office.

As soon as Zelenka entered the room, he knew that there was no way the hangover story was either a lie or an exaggeration. Sheppard looked absolutely terrible. He was sitting at his desks, slumped awkwardly to the side, looking pale and peaky. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that they were indoors, as well as, for some reason, a Stanford hat.

"What do you want?" Ronon demanded. Zelenka couldn't even begin to fathom why the Satedan had appointed himself John's spokesman for the day, but apparently it was something he was going to have to deal with.

"Weir said our mission reports 'contradicted each other,' and she wouldn't let us submit them until we 'got our story straight.' So I will need you to tell Lorne to stop lying."

"Hey!" Lorne yelled. "It's not me who's lying. I saw your mission report, you wrote down that I 'forgot my gun.' First off, there's a word for it - it's a P90. Secondly, I didn't _forget_ it. A Wraith knocked it into the river. A Wraith I was saving you from, by the way. And Colonel, I've already filled out all the appropriate paperwork about losing the firearm."

"Fine," John said. "Zelenka, you heard what happened. Can you fix your paperwork to reflect that?"

"I would," Zelenka sniffed. "Except that Lorne is _lying._ He said that I stood and screamed uselessly while he fought off ten Wraith all by himself, which is in no way true. There were only three Wraith, nowhere close to ten. Also, I took both offensive and evasive action when appropriate, exactly as we are trained to do. I believe that it is unfair that there should be any complaints about my behavior."

John frowned. "Well, I wasn't there," he said.

Zelenka waited. Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming.

"I know you weren't there," Lorne said. "But come on, Colonel. You must know I would never forget my gun on a mission. Or do any of the other stupid stuff Zelenka said I did."

"You said that I hid in the Jumper, while I was busy trying to rescue us from the situation that _you_ caused," Zelenka snapped. "I did not do any of the things that you claimed, either."

"That _I_ caused? _Me?_ Listen-"

"Stop, stop, STOP," Sheppard shouted, then seemed to regret it, pressing his hands to either side of his head.

Zelenka stopped, and he was somewhat gratified to note that Lorne did, too. The Major gave him one last glare, then turned his attention to his commanding officer.

"Straighten this out _somewhere else_ ," John said, and Zelenka couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses but he could imagine the expression. "Figure it out and rewrite the mission reports. If they still don't match, I...I…. I'll get McKay to build a...super-powerful lie detector and I'll stick you both in it. Got it?"

"Yessir," Lorne mumbled, and Zelenka nodded. They turned and left the office. Behind them, Zelenka saw John slump backwards in his chair, looking distinctly ill.

"Can Dr. McKay really do that?" Lorne asked as Ronon slammed the door closed behind them. "Make a lie detector, I mean?"

"I do not _think_ so," Zelenka said cautiously. "One can never be sure with Rodney. Or with Colonel Sheppard."

Lorne nodded, looking back at Sheppard's office. Zelenka joined him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Even for the Colonel, that had been...odd. Which reminded him….

"And I _told_ you that he was hungover, yes? That is now two weeks' pay that you owe me."


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as John deemed Lorne and Zelenka to be a safe distance away, he looked back at Ronon. "How did I do?"

"'Super-powerful lie detector?' Can McKay really make one of those?"

"I dunno," John mumbled. "Kinda hope not."

Ronon shuddered. "Me too."

John absently went to rub his eyes, hissing with impatience as his fingers met his sunglasses. "Think they noticed anything?"

Ronon actually laughed at that, and John ducked his head. "Yeah, Shep, I think they probably noticed somethin'. It's just Lorne and Zelenka though, I think you'll be okay. You saw their mission report, they're a mess. They probably just think you're hungover."

"That's what I wanted to _avoid_ ," John said, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so close to a whine.

Ronon shrugged. "Doesn't matter much anyways. No more Marines are comin' in - you're done here for the day. Time to go bother Mckay in his lab for an hour."

"It's time to...what?" John asked.

"Bother Mckay in his lab for the hour before lunch. I talked to him about it this morning. It's on your schedule."

"It's on my...schedule?" John asked. He didn't remember anything of the sort having been on his schedule any of the other days he'd spent on Atlantis. But, he supposed, he really did go hang out Rodney in his lab for an hour or so before lunch pretty damn often. If Rodney had just been trying to recreate a normal day….

"Alright," John sighed. "Let's go."

The walk to Rodney's lab was long and uncomfortable. And John was so focused on simply getting through each thing that was put in front of him that he had completely forgotten what bothering Rodney actually entailed. That is, until he was walking into Rodney's lab, and had to look the eager physicist in the face while he tried to think of something to say. Fooling the Marines had been one thing, but Rodney knew him quite well. He had seen him concussed, hungover, and everything in between. Trying to convince Rodney that he would be perfectly alright in a few hours would be much harder than anything he had done this morning.

"So can you...make a lie detector?" John asked. He tried his level best to sound the exact same way he normally would if he was walking into Rodney's lab unannounced.

Rodney looked up at him. "A what?"

"A lie detector. You know, like a super powerful one. With physics."

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Um, I maybe...told Lorne and Zelenka that you could?"

Rodney frowned slightly, the space between his eyebrows creasing. "Well, I don't think I can. It kind of sounds more up Beckett's alley. Are you here to look over my shoulder and make annoying comments until lunch?"

"Yes," John said miserably.

Rodney sighed and rolled his eyes theatrically. "Very well. Try not to be too disruptive, if you can manage that. I actually have work to do. Unlike you, apparently."

John wished very much that he could sit down, but he was supposed to be looking over Rodney's shoulder, and Rodney was standing. Oh, and he was supposed to be making annoying comments. He had the vague sense that Rodney expected them to be _amusing_ annoying comments, but John wasn't sure that he could deliver on that front. He cast a desperate glance at Ronon, who had retreated to a nearby desk and was leaning against it. Ronon shrugged, then jerked his head towards Rodney. There was nothing else for it, then.

"Well, I guess this 's part of my job now," John mumbled, peering at whatever Rodney was doing. It appeared to be something with wires.

"What is?" Rodney asked blankly.

"Uhh, bothering you?"

Rodney snorted. "Typical. What do you even do all day when we aren't on missions? I can't imagine you actually fill out paperwork. Do you?"

John tried to decide whether or not that was a rhetorical question. It must be, Rodney seemed to know his schedule better than he did himself. He was the one who'd given it to Ronon in the first place. God, his head hurt….

"Hello? Earth to Sheppard?" Rodney was looking at him now, wires abandoned on the benchtop. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'," John told him, trying for a smile. It didn't work.

Rodney sighed again. "That concussion really scrambled your brains, huh? You better be careful, or you really _will_ end up dumb."

This was bad. This was very, very bad. How did Rodney know about the concussion? John had tried so hard, he'd forced endless Monsters down his throat, he'd let Ronon tell everyone that he went on a date, that he'd _cried,_ and now Rodney had somehow figured it out anyway.

"What concussion?" John asked desperately.

"The one you got two weeks ago? Hello? God, Sheppard, how much did you drink?"

John couldn't do this anymore. Rodney was too smart, he knew John too well, and John was sure that if he opened his mouth again, Rodney would be able to put the pieces together.

"I dunno," John whispered, hoping that deliberate vagueness was safe. Over the top of Rodney's head, he looked despairingly towards Ronon. He needed help.

* * *

Sheppard was going to blow the whole thing. Ronon shook his head, glad that he hadn't gone with his initial plan of dropping John off at Rodney's lab. He moved forward, placing himself between Sheppard and McKay as casually as he knew how. He really hoped Rodney hadn't heard John's sigh of relief.

"Ignore him, McKay. He drank a lot. Hell, he might still be drunk. He's got a shitty tolerance. Maybe 'cause he's so skinny."

Ronon duly ignored the wounded sound that came from Sheppard and focused in on Rodney. If Sheppard couldn't bother McKay, he was going to have to fill in.

"What are you doing"" Ronon asked.

Rodney actually smiled - was Ronon really that bad at listening to the things his friends were interested in? He couldn't imagine it - he felt like he spent approximately two thirds of his life listening to Rodney talk about science.

"Well, Zelenka noticed that there was a problem with the network last night. He fixed it, don't ask me how _he_ managed to do it, but I took a look this morning and realized there's nothing at all stopping the same thing from happening again if certain conditions are met, and anyways, the entire system is really quite inefficient-"

"Oof," Ronon said. "I don't wanna know anymore."

Rodney looked annoyed, and Ronon felt satisfied. He had been talking to Rodney for less than a minute, and the scientist was already quite successfully bothered. Doing this for an entire hour would be a piece of cake.

By the time an hour had gone by and it was the team's usual lunch time, Rodney looked like he was about ready to throw both Ronon and John out of the lab. This was pretty much exactly what Ronon wanted - there was no reason for Rodney to argue when, as soon as noon rolled around, Ronon grabbed John and practically sprinted out of the lab.

"Where are you going?" Rodney asked, looking both confused and slightly upset. Ronon supposed that was fair. The thing with John was indeed both confusing and upsetting.

"Sheppard has to be yelled at by Weir for a little," Ronon said. "You know, for being drunk."

"But-"

But Ronon was already pulling John out the door. He didn't want to force John to be in the lab with Rodney for even one second more than was necessary.

"Do I have to be yelled at now?" John said as soon as they were out of earshot of Rodney. He looked very sad.

"Nah, buddy, I made that up."

"Oh," John said. He still seemed confused. "Okay."

"I didn't think you'd want to go to the mess hall today?" Ronon said. "Do you?"

"Oh," said John. "No."

"So now Rodney thinks you're being yelled at by Weir," Ronon said. "And he'll tell Teyla that too. But really, you'll be with me."

"Alright," John said, eyebrows drawing together. Ronon sighed.

"We can go back to your room or something. You have an hour to just rest, and no one's gonna come bother you."

"Oh," said John, brightening visibly. "That seems good!"

"You wanna go back to your room?" Ronon asked.

John looked as though he were thinking, and it was giving him trouble. "...Ye-es?"

Ronon sighed and put his hand on John's back. He gave him the tiniest of pushes, just to get him going. "Come on, buddy."

The walk to John's room was, if possible, even longer than the walk to Rodney's lab had been. With every step, John's boots found something to stumble over. Ronon swore that a few times, Sheppard managed to trip himself up on thin air.

By the end, Ronon had a firm grip on John's upper arm, keeping him oriented and as upright as possible. John didn't seem to mind, or possibly he hadn't noticed. Underneath the hat and sunglasses, his face was pale.

Increasingly worried, Ronon ushered Sheppard into his room and sat him down on the bed. Unthinkingly, he flipped the lights on, and John flinched. Ronon turned them back off, but switched on a lamp in the corner.

"Turn it off," John whispered softly.

"Can't. I gotta take a look at you," Ronon told him. "You look like shit."

John's lips quirked into his typical wry expression, and Ronon felt a little better. "'n case you hadn't noticed, 'm kinda concussed."

Ronon chuckled softly, but Sheppard still looked bad, worse than Ronon thought he should. He ran through a mental checklist in his head, thinking of anything that might make John look and feel a little better. The Monsters clearly weren't helping, sleep was off the table, and he couldn't take more Advil for a few hours yet.

"Sheppard. Think you could eat a little?"

"No," John said, sounding offended. "We din't go t'the mess hall. F'r a reason."

"C'mon. How long has it been since you ate?" Ronon asked, crossing his arms. It was a rhetorical question.

"Had some toast," John pointed out.

"Nope. You had one bite of toast. An' you threw it up. Dinner yesterday, that was the last time."

John scowled, but didn't answer.

"That's almost eighteen hours, Shep."

"'M nauseous," John said angrily. Ronon thought that John was probably right. He was often forgetful about meals, especially when he got distracted by missions or Jumper flights or other exciting events, but he rarely intentionally skipped a meal. If he was saying he was too nauseous to eat, he probably was.

But eighteen hours _was_ a long time, and for all Ronon knew John could be nauseous from lack of food. Eating really could help him feel better.

Ronon had a pretty strong stomach, and he couldn't even remember the last time he had felt sick enough to put him off a meal. But Rodney, despite enjoying things such as MREs and still-frozen frozen meals, often complained of an upset stomach for seemingly no reason at all. Ronon tried to think through the things the scientist was willing to eat when he was nauseous, wondering if maybe any of those would tempt John.

"Would you like some...rice?" Ronon asked cautiously.

John made a face. "Ew," he said softly. "No rice."

"What about...another piece of toast?"

John quickly shook his head, looking ill.

"Jello?" Ronon suggested.

"I'm not _Rodney,_ " John said disdainfully.

"What about a piece of fruit?" Ronon asked. "That would at least have...vitamins and stuff."

Ronon didn't know much about the vitamins in fruit. He also didn't know which vitamins might help John with his concussion. But they probably couldn't hurt. Vitamins and nutrients would surely help _something._

John seemed to consider. He considered so long that Ronon thought he had possibly forgotten the question.

"Fruit," Ronon reminded John gently.

"Oh yeah. Okay, yeah. Fruit. I'll take th't."

Ronon nodded. "Be right back," he said. Atlantis didn't always have fruit, and he wasn't exactly sure what he would be able to access. But he would just have to...make it happen.

After an awkward trip to the mess hall, where he'd had to dodge both Teyla and Rodney, who he was sure would question his absence from team lunch, Ronon was returning to John's room with the only fruit he'd been able to find - strawberries. Ronon was pretty sure he'd seen John eat strawberries at one time or another, so he thought that seemed like a pretty safe bet. Also, they were small. John must be able to stomach something so small.

"Sheppard," Ronon said sharply when he entered John's room. John was lying on his bed, looking very much like he was close to falling asleep.

"'M awake," John mumbled, forcing himself into a sitting position. "Whadya get?"

"Strawberries," Ronon said, pushing a bowl towards John. "Good?"

"Yeah," John said cautiously, taking the bowl from Ronon. He set it on the bedside table, then just sat there, staring. Ronon saw him swallow uncomfortably.

"Looking ain't enough," Ronon reminded him. "You gotta actually eat them."

John swallowed again, then picked up a berry. He looked at it distrustfully, then put it back in the bowl. "I...I don't think I can."

"You _have_ to," Ronon pleaded with him. "C'mon, please, just try a little?"

"Ronon, I really don' wanna throw up again," John muttered, glaring at the strawberries.

Ronon sighed. Appeals to reason had not worked, and neither had begging. Time for the last resort.

"If you don't eat, you're gonna get even skinnier. You'll be able to see all your bones." Ronon leaned over and poked Sheppard in the ribs.

John jerked away, gasping slightly. He looked upset enough that Ronon almost felt bad for bringing it up, but he had to get Sheppard to eat somehow.

"I am _not_ too skinny," John pouted. "Stop it."

"Not _yet_ ," Ronon said grimly. He pushed the bowl back towards John. "Eat."

John's lips thinned into a determined set that Ronon was all too familiar with.

"If you don't eat, I'm gonna keep naggin' you," Ronon warned. "I can get way meaner. It'll be real upsetting. Are you sure it's worth it?"

John scowled, but seemed to be wavering. Ronon pushed the bowl a little closer. He could feel Sheppard's glare even through the sunglasses. Indignation pouring off him in waves, John picked up one single strawberry and twisted around, turning his back to Ronon. Ronon shrugged it off. With the state Sheppard was in right now, in a couple of minutes, he wouldn't even remember being mad.

* * *

"Sheppard? You aren't asleep, are you?"

John was not asleep. He very much wished he was, but after he'd forced down his solitary strawberry and flopped over backwards on the bed, Ronon had been ever vigilant. He'd been asking this question, or some variation of it, at two minute intervals for the past thirty minutes.

"Sheppard?"

"Not asleep," John said irritably. Still, as much as he wished he could sleep, he did actually feel slightly better just from being in a dark room and not having to solve people's problems, or think too hard.

"Good," Ronon said. "Because in fifteen minutes, you're supposed to be sparring with Teyla."

"I'm supposed to _what_?" John gasped weakly, forcing himself into a somewhat upright position.

John had spent the better part of the day completely confused, but he was still pretty sure that he wasn't supposed to be sparring with Teyla. He wasn't supposed to be sparring with anyone at all. He was still on light duty, and sparring with Ronon was what had gotten him into this trouble in the first place.

"I dunno," Ronon said. "Mckay said at one you go to spar with Teyla."

"What?" John said again. He was starting to get confused and upset. He loved sparring normally, but he didn't want to be sparring now, not when he felt like this.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Shep," Ronon said thoughtfully. "Also, if you were sparring with Teyla the whole time, why weren't you sparring with me?"  
"I _wasn't_ sparrin' with Teyla," John said, starting to get a little mad. "Did Mckay tell you that?"

"Yeah."

John thought back as hard as he could, trying to figure out what the scientist had meant. Thinking was just...so hard when he was like this….

"Oh," John said, relief coursing through him as he realized that he was not about to have to fight the Athosian. "No, we aren't sparrin'. She's just been helping me relax after the first concussion. We just meditate and do some stretching and stuff."

Ronon made a face, and John made a face back. Ronon didn't know about the work he'd been doing with Teyla because John had known he would make that exact face when he found out. But John didn't really care, because it was pretty helpful.

Of course, John didn't think it would be helpful today. John was so exhausted he was worried he would pass out as soon as he stood up, and even the single strawberry was starting to churn uncomfortably in his stomach.

"Well, you'll probably have to go," Ronon said, "or else Teyla is gonna know that something's up."

"Don't wanna go," John said. The idea of trying to fool Teyla for an entire hour was even worse than the idea of trying to fool Rodney. He thought it might kill him.

"Sheppard…."

John whimpered softly and pulled his hat further down his forehead, hoping it would make his head hurt less. It did not.

"I know. I gotta," John said miserably. "You...you have to come too, though."

Ronon frowned. "You sure, buddy? Teyla knows how I feel about meditation type stuff. She'll get suspicious if I show up, too."

John grimaced. He hated asking for help at the best of times, and he'd been nothing but dependent on Ronon this entire day. Still, as unpleasant as the idea of admitting yet more weakness to Ronon was, the idea of being taken off duty and yelled at by Carson was worse.

"Don' think I can fool her on my own," John muttered, staring at his hands, carefully not looking at Ronon. "You saw me in McKay's lab."

"That was pretty bad," Ronon agreed. "You're right, Shep. Let's go. I'll even pretend to be interested in this meditation stuff."

John smiled slightly. Ronon extended a hand and pulled John to his feet, then steadied him as he wavered. Then, they set off to the training room.

* * *

"Ronon. I did not expect you to be joining us," Teyla said. She sounded pleasant enough, but Ronon could see her nostrils flaring. She was upset.

Ronon couldn't blame her. Sheppard had barely talked since they'd arrived at the training room, just half-collapsed to the floor in an awkward, cross-legged tangle of long limbs. Teyla had raised an eyebrow at him, but she hadn't seemed to be too annoyed, at least not until Ronon joined John on the floor.

"Sheppard was talkin' it up," Ronon explained. "Umm, meditation."

"Ronon, you do not enjoy meditation," Teyla said.

"Not yet," Ronon answered cheerfully. "Sheppard was very convincing."

Teyla gave him a fake smile and turned to John. "John, I believe that we were going to begin today with a stretching routine. You were mentioning that you felt overly restricted, and as you are nearly back on duty, I thought that perhaps we could begin to get more difficult."

John squeaked and shot Ronon a desperately pleading glance that Ronon could read even behind the sunglasses. Ronon cleared his throat.

"Actually, I'd really like to try meditation." Teyla turned around to glare at him, and Ronon smiled at her.

"This hour is for myself to work with Colonel Sheppard," Teyla said firmly. "What we do with it is up to him."

"'M good with meditation," John mumbled.

Teyla sighed heavily. "Very well," she said. "Please sit down on the floor. Both of you."

Ronon obediently followed Teyla's instructions to get seated in a comfortable position. He allowed her to guide him through relaxing his shoulders and evening out his breathing. He listened carefully to her all the way up until the actual meditation part. As soon as she started talking about picturing himself in a big open field, he started picturing himself being asleep. He tried valiantly to stay awake, knowing that as hard as it was for him to concentrate on the meditation, it had to be about a hundred times harder for Sheppard, but it was useless. There was just something about her voice, the way she told him to focus on his thoughts and center his breathing….

Ronon woke up to the sound of Teyla's voice. The _angry_ sound of Teyla's voice. He started upwards, opening his eyes, and saw that Teyla had turned around and was glaring at John, who also appeared to be fast asleep.

"John," she said angrily. "John, _wake up._ "

Ronon couldn't see John's eyes through his sunglasses, but he saw the tension return to John's shoulders as he woke up. He sat up slightly, looking disoriented.

"Uhh, what happened?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"You fell asleep," Teyla said angrily. "As did Ronon."

Ronon looked down.

"Oh," John said, voice small. "Sorry."

"It was you who asked if we could do meditation today in the first place, John," Teyla said. "If you do not wish to continue these sessions, I would prefer if you would just tell me so I do not have to keep wasting my time."

"No," John said quickly. "No, no, no, I mean, I do want to do them. I just...I didn't sleep well last night. I'm really sorry. Like I said. Yeah."

"You did not struggle to pay attention during meditation until Ronon got involved," Teyla said, shooting a glare back at Ronon. Ronon shrugged helplessly. It wasn't his fault meditation was super boring. It also wasn't his fault Sheppard was exhausted. Well, he supposed that might be a little bit his fault, but it was John who had asked to spar, and he couldn't expect Ronon to go easy on him….

"I'm sorry, Teyla," Ronon said, and he was. He didn't want to make Teyla angry, and he also really didn't want her to think he was going to make a habit of butting in on her time with John. Normally, he would do absolutely everything in his power to avoid a John and Teyla meditation session.

Teyla huffed, throwing up her hands. "John, I hope that next time, you will make more of an effort. Perhaps...do not bring Ronon."

"S'rry," John mumbled again, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up at Teyla, and Ronon thought it was a shame that his eyes were shielded by the sunglasses. Even though Ronon couldn't see his face, he could guess at the expression, that wide-eyed innocent of all wrongdoing face that seemed to soften everyone, even Weir. Teyla wouldn't have been able to resist it, and then she wouldn't be mad at them.

Apparently, it did work through the sunglasses, at least a little. Teyla's face loosened slightly, and she gave them a half-smile. "John, perhaps you should get some sleep. We will try again tomorrow."

"Thanks," John whispered, watching cautiously until she left the room. As the door closed behind her, he let out a sigh of relief, and Ronon watched his shoulders relax, ever so slightly.

"Wha's next?" John asked. "C'n I rest some more?"

Ronon frowned, consulting the crumpled wad of paper containing John's schedule. He made a face, looking towards John with sympathy. He really wasn't going to like this.

"Actually, it looks like you gotta train the Marines. For...three hours."

" _Fuck_ ," John said, with feeling.

"'Sokay," Ronon told him. "We'll figure it out. Let's get back to your room an' we can talk about it. Sound good?"

John nodded hesitantly, and allowed Ronon to pull him to his feet. Ronon steered him towards the door, racking his brain for anything that could be used to entertain a room full of Marines for three hours.


	7. Chapter 7

"Star Wars," John suggested, blinking into the cool darkness of his room. They still had about thirty minutes before he was supposed to train the Marines, but John wasn't optimistic about their chances.

"What about it?" Ronon asked.

"We put it on. Tell 'em...to analyze the tactics. An' the ones who train with you, me, or Teyla can try to...replicate the lightsaber fights." John was starting to get excited now. He didn't quite have the energy to sit up, but he did manage to look over at Ronon.

"Yeah," Ronon said, sounding almost equally excited. "It's a long movie, too. Eats up a ton of time."

"Exactly." John frowned. "Shame I couldn't watch it, though."

"Screens," Ronon said, nodding knowingly. "But hey, if all you're doing is putting on a movie, maybe you and I could just leave. They'd stay there, right?"

"Yeah?"

"They all like _Star Wars._ And then you could get some rest."

"Yeah!" John said, happy it had only taken them about thirty stupid ideas to settle on something that would satisfy the Marines.

Then he actually thought about putting on _Star Wars_ for a little longer. Now that he was really thinking about it, he could see that there were a few definite problems. First off, he was pretty sure they had all already seen _Star Wars,_ and very likely wouldn't want to again. Secondly, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he wasn't sure that putting on a movie really counted as training.

Lastly, and most importantly, if all he could manage was putting on a movie and leaving, he was pretty sure that would confirm to all his Marines that he was hungover. And he really didn't want that.

"Fuck," John said. "I think this actually might be a stupid idea."

"No," Ronon said. "Don't say that. It's fine. It'll be fine."

"Damnit," John said softly. "This isn't working. Neither of us are good at this."

Ronon nodded. "You're worse at it than me though."

John frowned. "I'm also hungover."

"You're concussed," Ronon reminded him.

"Oh." John was starting to have a difficult time keeping his stories straight. There was so much wrong with him he could barely even remember what it was anymore. "Anyways, I...think we need to bring in Mckay."

"No," Ronon said immediately.

"I'm serious," John protested. "He knows...he knows stuff. He's always...tellin' me stuff. I'm sure he'll be able to 'xplain stuff to the Marines. I c'n act like it was a plan all along. They'll never suspect."

"I don't like it," Ronon said. "What if he tells Beckett?"

"He wouldn't," John said, hoping it was true. "He wouldn't want to get me 'n trouble."

"That's not what you said last night," Ronon pointed out. "You made me swear not to get him."

"But...that was las' night," John muttered. He was sure that he had the argument that would make Ronon listen locked away somewhere in his head, but it was out of his reach.

"Shep, if he tells, you went through all of this for nothing. An' Beckett will be even madder now."

John shivered slightly at the thought of the sort of restrictions that would be placed on him if Beckett found out. No missions, no sparring, and Carson would probably even make him stay in the infirmary for a while….

"But R'dney won't tell," John said firmly. "Hey, if he does, you can jus' threaten t' beat him up."

Ronon brightened at that, and seemed to be considering.

"It's the best idea we're gonna have," John said sadly. "Go get McKay."

* * *

Rodney stared unseeingly at the crystal circuit in front of him, absentmindedly routing power around it as he fiddled with his new project. He wasn't really thinking about it, he didn't need to. Far more interesting was Sheppard and Ronon's bizarre behavior.

They were plotting something, Rodney was sure of it. The two of them were close, certainly, but John hardly let Ronon trail along behind him all day if nothing was going on. He _certainly_ never brought Ronon to Rodney's lab. No, there was some reason that Ronon had been acting as John's shadow. It couldn't just be that John was in the midst of what seemed to be an especially brutal hangover, either. Rodney frowned, mulling it over.

"A _ha_ ," he said quietly to himself.

"What is it, Doctor?" one of his assistants asked from a bench behind him. "Do you have something?"

Rodney waved the other scientist away impatiently and returned to his circuit. A _surprise party._ Sheppard loved birthdays, especially surprise parties. He'd even thrown one for Ronon, as soon as he found out when the Satedan's birthday was. That would explain why Ronon and John seemed to be conspiring about something.

Rodney shuffled through his mental inventory of birthdays, wishing he was better at remembering that sort of thing. The only one he was even remotely sure of was Sheppard's, and that was only because John was increasingly vocal about it as the date approached. Rodney's own birthday wasn't for another month, so it couldn't be his. Perhaps Teyla's, that would at least partially explain why John had enlisted Ronon's help rather than his own. Still, Rodney found himself a little offended, not that he would admit that to anyone.

"McKay?"

Rodney jumped, dropping his tablet as the Satedan appeared directly behind him. He expected Ronon to laugh, but he didn't even crack a smile. He looked unusually worried.

"You gotta come with me."

"I am _working_ ," Rodney growled.

"Not anymore you ain't. C'mon. It's Sheppard."

"Ahhh. Yes, I know all about this. Very well, perhaps I could spare a moment."

Ronon frowned. "You know that Sheppard has a concussion and needs someone to teach the Marines for the next three hours?"

Rodney blinked. "He...what?"

"So you don't know all about this," Ronon said. "Good. If you knew, then maybe everyone knows. And that's not what we want. The whole point of this is that it's a secret."

"I do know Sheppard has a concussion," Rodney said, still struggling to put all the pieces together. "That...I think everyone knows that. He's been off-duty for a week."

"No, this is a _second_ concussion. I gave it to him last night when we were sparring."

"Oh," Rodney said, suddenly worried. That was a significantly more alarming explanation for John's strange behavior. "You sparred while he was _drunk_? Has he been to see Beckett?"

"Nah," Ronon said. "The drunk thing was just the cover story, to hide the concussion. 'Cause he can't go see Beckett. He's fine, he just needs a day or two to recover. But if Beckett gets a hold of him, he's going to take him off-duty for a really long time. And then we won't be able to go on missions for a really long time either."

"If Sheppard has had two concussions in as many weeks, it's possible that he needs to go off-duty for a little bit," Rodney said reasonably.

"Also, Beckett will yell at him," Ronon said. "And also he'll yell at me."

"You and Sheppard probably deserve it. It'll teach you not to do something like this again."

"If you tell Beckett that he's hurt, I'll beat you up," Ronon said. "I wasn't looking for...advice, or whatever. I just want you to help us cover to the Marines."

Rodney considered. On one hand, he thought this was an absolutely terrible idea, and he was afraid that it would end up with Sheppard in really big trouble. But on the other hand, it didn't seem like he had much of a choice. He still thought they should go to Beckett, but he really didn't want to be beaten up by Ronon, especially if Sheppard was still in good enough shape to be walking around pretending he was only hungover. Maybe, if Rodney involved himself, he would be able to help.

"I want to see Sheppard," Rodney said.

"No. Just go do...the Marine thing. I'll take care of Sheppard."

"No," Rodney said. He wouldn't even be able to focus on trying to...distract the Marines, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, until he was able to see his friend. He wanted to make sure that Ronon wasn't going to kill John by being stupid. "Let me see him."

Ronon frowned. "Fine," he said finally. He led Rodney out of the lab, and back towards Sheppard's room. He walked quickly, as usual, and Rodney had to hurry to keep up. He didn't mind quite as much this time, though, not when a concussed Sheppard had been left to Ronon's tender mercies all day.

John's room was dark, dark enough Rodney spent a moment wondering if John was even there.

"Sheppard? You aren't asleep, are you?" Ronon flicked on the lamp on John's desk, and Rodney saw Sheppard huddled in a corner, head tilted awkwardly against a wall.

"Fuck," Ronon muttered, and John stirred slightly.

Rodney joined Ronon as the Satedan went to John's side, kneeling beside him on the floor. "Sheppard, you asleep?"

"Mmm," John mumbled, then raised his head partway. "McKay?"

"Why are you on the floor?" Rodney asked, unsure why he was even bothering. Nothing else about this day made any sense, so it was unlikely that this would.

"So I don' fall asleep," John said, sounding guilty. "Didn't work."

Ronon sighed heavily and grabbed John's arm. "C'mon. Let's get you up."

He heaved Sheppard to his feet like he weighed nothing, then steered him over to his bed and let him flop gracelessly onto it.

"Ronon?" John asked softly. "'M gonna throw up."

"Again?" Ronon asked, not sounding nearly panicked enough, in Rodney's opinion.

" _Again?_ " Rodney clarified, moving towards John to get a better look at his friend. "Has he been throwing up? Sheppard, have you thrown up?"

"Lots," John admitted. He looked thoroughly miserable, at least from what Rodney could see of his face. He assumed that the hat and sunglasses were there for some reason, possibly to shield the photosensitive Colonel from as much light as possible. That, too, was a bad sign.

"Don't throw up again, Shep," Ronon warned. "It's not good."

"Tryin'," John whispered, swallowing convulsively.

"You want some more Monster?"

"Some more _what?_ " Rodney demanded. "He shouldn't have anything of the sort! How much of that stuff have you given him?"

"I dunno," Ronon said, starting to sound dangerous. "As much as he can keep down?"

Rodney sputtered, thinking of about a million names he could call the idiotic Satedan. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a single one that wouldn't get him punched. This situation would require a little more finesse.

"I'll handle Sheppard," Rodney said definitively. John didn't seem to notice he was being discussed, instead listing slightly sideways on his bed. Without thinking, Rodney took hold of his shoulder, keeping him upright. "Ronon, go tell Zelenka that he has to come up with something to entertain the Marines."

Ronon scowled. "Why do _I_ have to get Zelenka?"

"Because you're large and strong and he's scared of you," Rodney said succinctly.

"But what's he gonna do to entertain the Marines?" Ronon asked.

"I don't know!" Rodney said. "That's Zelenka's job to figure out. You can help him if he needs ideas. I don't care what the two of you do, just...call me once you've got everything figured out."

"But-"

"No buts," Rodney said firmly. Sheppard looked so miserable and ill, and Rodney was feeling rather protective of the Colonel. He wasn't going to allow Ronon to continue to bully him for being nauseous, and he wasn't going to be able to deal with both Sheppard and the Marines he was supposed to be teaching. "Go. Get out of here."

Ronon frowned. "Don't throw up, Shep," Ronon said, peeking at John from around Rodney.

"Stop telling him that!" Rodney yelled. "Leave!"

Finally, Ronon left the room, looking angry but also ashamed, and Rodney returned his focus to John.

"Hey," Rodney said. John shrugged away from his voice, and Rodney immediately felt guilty - he'd been practically screaming at Ronon, and John was clearly sensitive to noise. Rodney quickly lowered his voice. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm gonna throw up," John mumbled.

"Do you wanna...go into the bathroom?" Rodney asked cautiously. He wasn't really sure exactly what else to offer in this situation. Even though Ronon's presence had seemed in many ways to be doing more harm than good, Rodney suddenly wished he hadn't been so quick to dismiss him. Rodney didn't really know what was going on, and when he didn't really know what was going on, he also didn't really know how to help.

John shook his head, looking miserable. "No."

"Oh," Rodney said. "Do you...feel better now?"

"No," John said, swallowing hard again. "Th're's a trash can. Somewhere."

Rodney's eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet, looking frantically for the trash can. He found one in the corner, and quickly thrust it at John, who held onto it like it was a lifeline.

John gagged a little, although he seemed to have taken Ronon's request to heart, and was trying his best not to actually throw up. "Sorry," he whispered, staring into the trash can.

"It's not your fault?" Rodney suggested. He wasn't sure if that was true, but it seemed like a nice thing to say.

"Ronon made me eat a strawberry," John said by way of explanation.

"Why?" Rodney asked blankly.

"Dunno." John sounded aggrieved, and he hugged the trash can closer. "Said I'd feel better. An' he kept callin' me too skinny, and it _didn't_ make me feel better. _Fuck_."

John bent over the trash can and retched into it, his whole body shaking. Rodney waited for him to be done, becoming alarmed when John gagged and began throwing up again. This seemed like far more than a single strawberry.

A little awkwardly, Rodney patted John on the shoulder. "This was a really stupid plan, you know."

Sheppard whimpered by way of an answer, then went back to puking. Rodney moved his hand to John's back, rubbing it as John continued to shudder over the trash can.

"A really, _really_ stupid plan. Honestly, if I didn't know you were a genius, I'd wonder about you sometimes."

"Tired of not sparrin'," John mumbled into the trash can.

"See, that's just what I'm talking about. Stupid," Rodney said soothingly. "Idiotic pilots and their ridiculous plots to get themselves killed, all because they can't wait to get hit with large wooden sticks. One of these days, you're going to do yourself some real damage."

Sheppard coughed into his trash can and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're not gonna tell Carson, right, McKay? Cause Ronon-"

"Will beat me up, yes, yes, I know," Rodney said, sighing. "No, I won't tell Carson. At least not right away."

John managed a painful half-smile, then turned back to the trash can. Rodney absentmindedly began rubbing his back again as John trembled.

"So did you go on a date?" Rodney asked. He still wasn't entirely clear on what was true and what was the product of Ronon's desperate creativity.

"No," John said firmly. "Umm, I don't think so? 'M a little confused. I dunno who I woulda wanted a date with. Think I was jus' sparrin'."

"That's probably right, then." Rodney considered, then sighed again. "Besides, most of the girls here are probably taken in by the annoying flyboy charm, or whatever you call it. Not that you ever take advantage of it, you won't even get me a date with anyone-"

"McKay," John said testily into the depths of the trash can.

"Sorry, sorry," Mckay said. "Are you done?"

"I don't know how to tell," John murmured. "I don't-"

He seemed nearly on the edge of passing out - his head listing forward, his voice weak and quiet.

"Alright," Rodney said, his voice softening. "Come on, let's get you up. Maybe you can drink a little water."

John shook his head.

"At least rinse your mouth out."

John shook his head again.

"You need it," Rodney pointed out, pulling John up by the shoulder and leaning him back against the wall.

"Mmm," John groaned. "Mckay…."

"Just shut up for a second," Rodney said. "Don't worry. I'm going to figure everything out."


	8. Chapter 8

Zelenka had not seemed very happy to have Ronon show up unannounced in his lab. Ronon had figured he was going to have to bully the scientist into taking over John's lesson to the Marines, but to Ronon's surprise, that part didn't seem to bother Zelenka at all. On the contrary, he seemed pretty excited.

"I have been waiting for just this moment!" he said happily.

"You...have?" Ronon asked. He didn't even think the scientist _liked_ Marines.

"I have a lesson prepared!"

"You...do?" If Ronon were in Zelenka's position, he wouldn't be nervous. He was pretty sure he could entertain any group of Marines for a couple of hours. But he certainly wouldn't have a lesson plan prepared. He couldn't even begin to fathom what Zelenka was going to talk about.

"Yes," he said. "I have compiled a list of tips and tricks that the Marines should know when they are interacting with the scientist on their team."

"Oh."

"Also, I need to cover for John because he is hungover, yes?"

"He-"

"I have money riding on this."

Ronon shook his head slightly - Zelenka never ceased to confuse and surprise him. Every interaction he had with the scientist only left him more perplexed.

"Yeah," Ronon finally said. "He's hungover. He'll be fine though, just doesn't want to give a three hour talk."

"I understand."

"So you'll do it?" Ronon asked, feeling the urge to double check. He still thought that perhaps, Zelenka was playing some sort of bizarre joke.

"Yes," Zelenka said, nodding to himself. "I will prepare."

The scientist turned abruptly back to his computer, acting as though Ronon had suddenly blinked out of existence. Still feeling a little off-balance, Ronon shrugged and tapped his comms.

"He said he'll do it, McKay. Sheppard is gonna have to say somethin', though. About why Zelenka is doing his job." Ronon heard a sad sort of mumble from the other end of the comms, likely from Sheppard.

"I'll bring him over," Rodney said. His voice got fainter. "Yes, Sheppard, you do have to show up. Even Marines will notice if you don't give a reason why _Zelenka_ is talking to them."

There was another soft mumble from Sheppard, and the comms disconnected. Ronon fidgeted, but he thought he'd better keep an eye on Zelenka, in case the scientist changed his mind.

Zelenka shuffled through his stack of index cards, reviewing their order. He didn't wish to make a habit of doing Sheppard's job for him, but in this one instance, he didn't actually mind it. If the Marines listened to him - which, knowing Marines the way Zelenka did, was a lot to ask - then perhaps some of the constant conflicts between offworld scientists and military could be avoided. Zelenka paused outside the door of the over-large conference room that served as a sort of auditorium, reshuffling his index cards one more time.

"Doc? What are you doing here?"

Zelenka looked up to see Lorne, looking at him with something that wasn't _quite_ outright hostility. He sniffed haughtily, drawing himself up and wishing that he could look down his nose at Lorne.

"I am giving a talk about how offworld teams of Marines can better interact with scientists who either temporarily or permanently join their missions," Zelenka said. "Perhaps you should pay particular attention. You might learn something."

Lorne crossed his arms, glowering. "Why are _you_ _here_? The Colonel is supposed to be doing some kind of training."

Zelenka smiled smugly. "Yes. Well. He is hungover, and cannot. Ronon told me. You lose."

Lorne frowned, and looked like he was about to say something, but was cut off when John, closely followed by Rodney, arrived at the end of the hallway. Zelenka was alarmed by John's appearance - he looked somehow even worse than he had in the morning. Lorne blanched, and Zelenka understood why.

"Sir-"

"You can go in," John said, sounding weak and exhausted. Lorne grimaced slightly, but clearly didn't have it in him to argue. He left, and Rodney, John, and Zelenka were alone.

"You good to do this?" John asked Zelenka. Even if Zelenka were less prepared, there was no way he could have ever dreamed of saying no, not looking at the Colonel now.

"Yes, Colonel," Zelenka said. "I've actually had something prepared for a while, a little lesson I thought I could give if I ever had...an opportunity like this…."

"Yeah," John said, stumbling forward a half-step and being barely caught by Rodney. It was clear Zelenka could go in front of the Marines and say absolutely anything, and John would do nothing but let it happen. "I'm just gonna go...introduce you. Yeah."

He left Rodney, and stumbled into the conference room. Zelenka and Rodney exchanged an alarmed voice as they both heard John begin to talk.

"I have a...special guest today," he said. "A very special pers'n who will be speaking this afternoon. Instead 'f me. It's Dr. Zelenka. He'll be speaking about…."

John paused for a long moment, and Zelenka saw a flash of alarm cross Rodney's face.

"I'll let him tell it," John finally finished, and Rodney breathed out.

John backed out of the room before Zelenka even had time to fully realize what was happening, and he figured this was his cue. Zelenka walked into the room, trying to pretend this was a perfectly normal occurrence that had probably been planned far in advance.

"Hello," Zelenka said, pushing his glasses up. Now that he was actually looking at the Marines, he was starting to get a little nervous. They didn't look like they really wanted to be there, and they also looked confused about...whatever had just happened with John. "I have prepared a...a list of tips that should help you with any scientists that you have joining your missions, whether on a temporary or permanent basis. As you may have noticed, you cannot talk to your scientist the way you would another Marine and this should…."

* * *

John sagged back against the wall outside the conference room, feeling a dull rush of relief as Zelenka's voice settled into some sort of cadence. That was one more obstacle avoided, one less place for him to get tripped up, called out. Now, he just had to…he wasn't sure. John's mind skipped and stuttered over the rest of the day, his mental schedule filled with alarming gaps. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too taxing, and he could maybe even get some sleep, and everything would be much easier tomorrow. He...would be better by tomorrow, wouldn't he?

"Sheppard, come on. Unless you plan on leaning on this wall for the next three hours?"

Rodney tugged at John's elbow. John stared at him, trying to process McKay's words. He didn't want to lean on the wall, he thought. Or did he? It was getting increasingly hard to keep his thoughts straight.

"Sheppard," Rodney said again, and John let Rodney pull him upright, off the wall. As soon as he wasn't being held up by the wall anymore, the world seemed to get a lot more uncertain. John clutched at his head as the floor seemed to tip underneath him, or maybe his vision was just twisting around again. Maybe he should shut his eyes.

Hands closed around his shoulders, and John pried his eyes open to focus dizzily on McKay, who was staring at him with concern.

"God, Sheppard, you tripped. Again. You almost fell, are you sure we shouldn't go to Carson?"

"Do I have to punch you, McKay?" Ronon seemed to materialize before them, and John squeezed his eyes shut again, relying on Rodney to keep him upright.

"Ron'n? What...when'd you get here?"

"Just now, buddy," Ronon said, and there was the sudden weight of another hand on his back. "How's he doin', McKay?"

"Terrible," Rodney said, and John recognized Rodney's "edge-of-panic" voice. "He can barely even stand up, much less walk. He needs to sit down. He needs-"

"Don't say it, McKay."

"Hey," John mumbled, forcing his eyes open again. "You talkin' bout me?"

Rodney huffed loudly and rolled his eyes. "Of course we're talking about you, you're the one with a severe concussion who can't take a single step without tripping over a slight breeze."

John didn't think this seemed very nice, but he couldn't think of exactly how to say it, or even really understand what Rodney had said. He settled for scowling at Rodney.

"He'll be fine," Ronon said.

"And I don't know if you can _comprehend_ why this is bad," Rodney said, his voice raising louder in agitation, "but the next thing on the Colonel's list is a promotion ceremony. He couldn't even stand in front of the Marines and spout off about...guns, or...or tactics, or anything. How is he supposed to stand in front of the same group of Marines and give one of them an _official promotion_?"

"I mean, at least he'd have to talk less," Ronon said. John nodded sleepily - that seemed right. Ronon had his back.

" _Talk?_ " John wished Rodney would be quieter. " _Talk?_ He can't even stand."

John frowned.

"We'll get him back to his room," Ronon said. "He has three hours, we can get him ready."

"Yeah," John interjected softly. He thought going back to his room sounded nice.

"Alright, come on," Ronon said, and then there was a hand at his other side, and he was being guided back to his room again.

They had been walking for...John really had no idea how long, he thought he'd tripped around six or seven times, when Rodney suddenly stiffened beside him.

"Tell me that's not who I think it is," Rodney whispered.

"Nope," Ronon said. "That's definitely Beckett."

"Coming this way," Rodney moaned.

Now that it had been pointed out to him, John could hear Carson's distinctive voice coming down the hallway towards them. He didn't know much, not anymore, but he knew that this was very, very bad. He was pretty sure he looked terrible. If Carson saw him, it would only take him one second to know that something was wrong. And then John would be yelled at, and probably taken off-duty forever.

"Can't talk to him," John mumbled.

"No, you most certainly can't," Rodney agreed. "Oh, this is bad, this is very, very bad…."

"Sorry, McKay," Ronon grunted, and Ronon's hand closed around John's arm and he was being yanked sideways, into a hallway. Ronon steadied him against a wall, and John squeezed his eyes shut, sure that he was about to be discovered.

Ronon glanced back towards the main passage, where Rodney was standing panicked. Hopefully, McKay would be able to come up with _something,_ or they were all about to be in very big trouble. He turned back to Sheppard, who was beginning to look vaguely confused. Ronon took hold of his shoulders, turning John so that they were face to face. It was hard to tell behind the sunglasses, but he thought that John was looking at him.

"Sheppard, you have to be very quiet, alright?" Ronon hissed. "You can't say _anything_. Do you understand?"

Very slowly, John nodded. Ronon patted him on the shoulder approvingly and let him sink back against the wall. He joined him, hoping that if Beckett did happen to glance into the hallway, John would be shielded from sight by Ronon.

"Oh, hello, Rodney." Carson's voice sounded awfully close, and Ronon stiffened, glancing at Sheppard to make sure he wasn't about to talk, or throw up again, or decide to wander off. Luckily, John seemed equally as tense as Ronon.

"Have you seen Colonel Sheppard?" Carson asked. "I thought I saw him with you. He missed his checkup today. I'm sure he was just busy, but you know our Colonel, one never knows with him-"

"Nope," Rodney squeaked. "Haven't seen him."

"Really? I thought I saw him and Ronon go down there-"

There was a sudden shuffling movement that Ronon thought was probably Rodney stepping hurriedly in front of the hallway. "Umm, I don't think so. But this does actually work out after all, I've been looking for _you_. As it happens."

"Oh. You have, have you?" Carson suddenly sounded very tired.

"I have," Rodney answered. "I've been feeling a bit under the weather, you know, and I wanted to make sure that it wasn't anything too nasty. What does it mean if my...ears...are itchy?"

"It probably means that they need to be scratched, Rodney," Carson sighed.

"Well, and my fingers have been tingling oddly, and I think they've been turning a bit yellow at the tips, or maybe orange. Should I be eating more carrots? Less carrots? No carrots?"

"Feel free to eat as many carrots as you can get your hands on, God knows we could all use the nutrients," Carson said. "Now, if you don't mind-"

"Wait," Rodney said quickly. "I'm not done. I, um, I think my voice has been changing. I've noticed it sounds lower in the mornings, I think you may need to look at my throat-"

" _Rodney_ ," Carson said. "I have duties I must attend to. I cannot spend all day with you in the hallway."

"I also stubbed my toe yesterday…."

"If you have any medical concerns that you would like addressed, please feel free to come down to the infirmary at any time," Carson said, with what Ronon thought was an impressive amount of patience. "But I'm afraid I must leave you now. I have other patients."

"But-"

Ronon heard the sound of Carson's quick footsteps retreating down the hallway. Ronon spent a moment listening, trying to make sure the coast was clear, and then grabbed John by the shoulder and pulled him back towards Rodney.

"You did good, Mckay," Ronon said. Not everyone could simply annoy Beckett into leaving.

"Yes, yes," Rodney said. "How's Sheppard?"

Ronon looked back at Sheppard. Sheppard looked at both of them. Or at least, he tried to. Even through the sunglasses, Ronon could tell he was having some trouble getting his eyes to open all the way, and he was horribly pale-looking. He was still wavering on his feet. Ronon hoped he could get this promotion done in ten minutes or less. Otherwise, Ronon really wasn't sure what was going to happen.

"He's fine," Ronon said, even though it mostly wasn't true. "Let's just get him back to his room."

* * *

An hour later, Rodney and Ronon had John sitting on his bed. They had let him rest for a little while after returning to his room - after all, Zelenka's lesson to the Marines was supposed to be three hours long. But Rodney wasn't sure how long it would take to get him ready for the promotion, and so had figured they had better start early. Now, Rodney was staring at him, trying to figure out how he could make the pilot look something that was even adjacent to awake and aware.

"Better see what I'm dealing with," Rodney muttered. He still hadn't actually seen John's injury, and Sheppard was looking peaky enough that Rodney was getting worried again. If it was bad, really bad, he'd have to put his foot down and involve Carson, even if it meant getting punched by Ronon. Rodney really hoped it wasn't that bad.

"Sheppard, can you take off your sunglasses? And the hat?" Rodney crouched in front of his friend, peering into John's face.

"Yeah," John whispered, not making the slightest move to do either of the things Rodney had asked of him.

"You're not doing so well," Rodney muttered to himself. John didn't seem to realize that Rodney was talking about him, and didn't answer. Gently, Rodney lifted the sunglasses off John's face, taking the hat off as well.

John hissed and blinked rapidly, one hand going to his face in an attempt to shield his eyes from the light. There wasn't much of it, Rodney and Ronon had only turned on John's desk lamp.

"Did you check his pupils?" Rodney asked Ronon, catching John's wrist before he could cover his eyes with his hand.

"Get off," John snapped, pulling his hand away.

"Sheppard, I need to look at your head."

"Ron'n already did that," John muttered, but he subsided, even turning to look at Rodney.

"Um, his pupils were kinda fucked. Frozen, different sizes. I cleaned out the cut, though. With disinfectant."

Rodney was at least pleasantly surprised to hear that Ronon had cleaned anything out. Still, he wanted to examine Sheppard for himself.

"God, Sheppard, your eye looks _terrible_ ," Rodney said before he could stop himself. John's right eye was swollen almost completely closed, open only far enough for Rodney to see that his pupils were indeed uneven. There was a bruise stretching from the top of John's cheekbone all the way to his temple, alarming shades of purples and blues and blacks mottling his otherwise pale face. The edge of the bruise disappeared under the haphazard strips of gauze that were wound around his head.

"I'm going to take a look at the cut now," Rodney told Sheppard, then began unwinding the bandage.

"Don'," John said sharply, beginning to pull away. "Ron'n cleaned it out. I think."

"Sheppard, you are supposed to be giving a promotion ceremony in two hours," Rodney snapped. "Right now, you can't even stand. I need to get an idea of the situation before I can fix it."

Rodney peeled the bandage away from John's head with some difficulty - it was tacky with dried blood. Underneath the cut itself was...well, it certainly could have been worse. The skin above John's eyebrow was pink and shiny with swelling, the cut nearly obscured by the dried blood that had been smeared everywhere. Rodney at least didn't see anything caught in the wound, but it seemed as if Ronon had cleaned it out when it had still been bleeding and left the bandage on since then. Rodney didn't think that seemed very sanitary.

Rodney began probing the cut with one finger, trying to get a sense of the damage. He held John's head still with his other hand. Two years ago, doing this sort of job would have made Rodney gag. Now, he just swallowed hard and kept going.

"I think this needs to be cleaned out again," Rodney murmured. "Once the blood's off your face, it'll be easier to hide."

"Don't want it to be cleaned out," John mumbled. "Stings."

"I know you really don't want to go to Beckett, but…."

"Don't want to go to Beckett," John said in agreement.

Rodney sighed. He was starting to have serious doubts that John could even make it to the promotion ceremony, and anyways, what was the point? John seemed to think he'd be doing much better in a day or two, and he only needed to keep the concussion hidden until then. But Rodney didn't think that was likely - if it came to that, was he planning on trying to keep the concussion hidden for weeks? And anyways, he was doing badly enough that Rodney really thought he should probably be taken off duty anyway.

"Sheppard, where's your uniform?" Ronon asked. Rodney looked at him in surprise - there were way too many...details, and...and traditions for the US military, and Rodney could never hope to keep them all straight. He never had any idea when John was supposed to be wearing his uniform or when it was alright for him to go without one. Honestly, he was shocked that Ronon had remembered.

"My...uniform?" John asked blankly.

"Yeah, you know, for the ceremony," Ronon said. "I'll start lookin' for it."

"Do I need it?" John asked sadly. His face was horrifyingly blank, and Rodney still wasn't even convinced he knew what uniform they were talking about.

"Yes, Sheppard, you need it," Rodney snapped. "Where do you keep stuff like that? Is it in your closet?"

As Rodney talked, he got a bottle of disinfectant from John's bedside table, probably the same one Ronon had cleaned the wound out with last night, and poured some on a washcloth. He pressed it to the gash on John's forehead as gently as he could, still keeping Sheppard's head still with his other hand. John winced, but he didn't pull away. Rodney wiped the dried blood from John's face as well as he could. Contrary to his hopes, the wound beneath looked almost worse when the blood was gone, its edges raw and livid against John's skin. Rodney stared at it, unsure what to do. Bandaging it would only call attention to it, and he shuddered to think what humiliating story they would have to concoct to explain John's forehead to the Marines. For now, he just left it open to the air, hoping vaguely that it would look better in an hour or so.

"It's not in his closet," Ronon announced from the corner of the room, his words accompanied by a crash. "Fuck. Sorry, Shep."

John merely blinked confusedly up at Rodney, apparently failing to realize that Ronon was destroying his belongings inch by inch.

"Do you know where your uniform is?" Rodney asked John, speaking slowly, as if John was a small child.

John frowned, his brow furrowing into thought. After what seemed like far too long, his expression cleared. "No," he said proudly.

"That's okay," Ronon said. "I'll keep looking."

Another crash. Rodney flinched, dreading having to explain this to Sheppard when he was a little more recovered.

* * *

It was too bright. Too bright, and too loud. Ronon seemed to have taken it upon himself to make a lot of very loud noises, often accompanied by swearing, or the sound of breaking glass. John thought that whatever Ronon was doing had been explained to him, possibly more than once, but he couldn't remember what the answer was. He couldn't think straight, it was too bright.

John put a hand to his face, clumsy fingers searching for his sunglasses. Why weren't they working anymore? He frowned as his fingers found his skin instead.

"Sunglasses?" John asked softly.

"Oh. Sorry, Sheppard." Rodney pressed the sunglasses into his hand, and John managed to settle them on the bridge of his nose after only a few tries. Good, that was one problem solved.

At his chest of drawers, Ronon ripped out the bottom drawer far too enthusiastically, and the whole thing fell to the ground with an earsplitting thud. John flinched back, pressing his hands to his ears.

"Ronon, be _careful_ ," Rodney snapped, and John squeezed his eyes shut as Rodney's voice seemed to drill through his head.

"Sorry, Shep."

"Too loud," John mumbled, glaring at Ronon through his reclaimed sunglasses. "Watcha doin'?"

"I'm lookin' for your uniform," Ronon said. "Which I need to do because _you_ can't remember where you put it."

"Oh," John said sadly. And then, all at once, several things clicked together, and he realized he did in fact know what Ronon was talking about. His _uniform._ He needed that for the ceremony tonight.

"'S under my bed," he said.

"What's it doing under there?" Rodney asked. He sounded annoyed. That made John feel annoyed in turn - why did Rodney care where he stored his uniform?

"It's in a box," John said defensively. He almost never had to use his dress uniform on Atlantis, and it made more sense to keep it neatly folded up and stored away than taking up precious closet space. It was easy enough to pull out when he needed it. That is, if he wasn't concussed, and could remember where he put it.

Ronon had already apparently located the box. He was holding it out, and saying something to John. John wasn't exactly sure what the something was, because Ronon was saying the something so loud that John felt like he could barely hear himself think. He curled in on himself, wishing he could block out every single sensory input for a while and just lie in a dark silent room.

"God, Ronon, talk quieter, he's in pain…."

Ronon lowered his voice to a more manageable volume, and John lost the thread of the conversation until suddenly Rodney was crouched down in front of him.

"Sheppard," Rodney said, and while his voice was quiet, it still carried a faint bite. "Your uniform is all wrinkled from sitting in a box. Do you have an iron somewhere?"  
John frowned. "...no?"

Rodney sighed. "Alright, Ronon's going to take care of you for a little bit. I'm going to see if I can find an iron. Maybe Teyla has one. I'm sure someone must."

John closed his eyes. He heard the sound of footsteps. He heard the door open, and then close.

What seemed like approximately one second later, Ronon was shaking his shoulder gently. "Hey, buddy," he said. "I don't know when Rodney's gonna get back. But I think we need to get this uniform on, so we have time to clean up your face."

"It's wrinkled," John protested.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone's gonna be lookin' at your uniform."

"What're they gonna be lookin' at?" John asked, frowning.

Ronon looked him up and down, then made a face. "No offense, but your face looks so bad right now that no one's gonna notice a couple wrinkles in your uniform."

"Oh," John said sadly.

"Sorry, buddy. Come on, let's get started," Ronon said, pushing a wad of cloth at him. John took it and stared at it in vague confusion, until Ronon took it back from him and shook it out. It turned out to be a shirt. Ronon handed it back, and John absentmindedly poked at his freshly unbandaged head wound while he tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing with the very wrinkled shirt that was spread across his bed.

"Stop messing with that," Ronon said, pulling John's hand away from his head. John blinked at his fingers, surprised to find blood on them. Unthinkingly, he went to wipe them on the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be the shirt.

"Sheppard, no, you need to...wear that," Ronon said, trailing off into a sigh.

"I do?" John asked, wishing everyone would stop yelling at him and asking him to do things. He was so tired he could barely think straight, and his head hurt, and his vision was blurry and his hearing was far too sensitive.

"You're really out of it, huh?" Ronon asked. John just blinked back at him, wondering if he was still in trouble for getting blood on his shirt.

Ronon narrowed his eyes. "Can I get that really big dog that I've been asking Weir for? And keep him on Atlantis?"

John had completely lost track of the conversation. He didn't think that Ronon was making any sense at all anymore, but that was probably just him. Ronon had probably said something perfectly sensible, and John had just missed it, and now Ronon was going to get worried and take him to Carson. Warily, John nodded, hoping that it would be enough to fool Ronon.

Ronon sighed. "Don't worry, buddy, I'm not gonna hold you to that. Now, let's get this uniform thing figured out."


	9. Chapter 9

Rodney had successfully located an iron, and felt that things were looking up. Now, all they had to do was get John looking vaguely presentable, and wake him up enough to say a few words in front of some Marines. That couldn't possibly be too difficult, could it?

"Sheppard, stay _still_." Ronon's voice was loud even from behind a closed door, and Rodney sped up towards John's door. He opened it hurriedly and froze, taking in the scene before him. Ronon had tried to get John into his uniform, but he had clearly forgotten what a military uniform was supposed to look like. His shirt was buttoned wrong, he didn't have a tie, and he was now wearing both the hat and sunglasses again.

"No, no, no," Rodney said. "This isn't going to work. Ronon-"

"No one's gonna be lookin' at his uniform," Ronon said with a shrug.

Rodney sighed. He supposed that that was largely true, but they still couldn't have the Military Commander of Atlantis looking like...that.

"We still need to fix it," Rodney said.

Ronon frowned, and John looked at Rodney with blank eyes, and Rodney sighed again. He really did have to do everything around here. He had no idea how John and Ronon alone had hid John's concussion as long as they had before bringing in Rodney.

Thirty minutes later, John's uniform was ironed, the buttons had all been buttoned correctly, he had a tie on, and Rodney was pretty sure all the buttons and pins were in the right place. Unfortunately, neither Ronon nor Rodney had any idea what to do about the wound on John's face. Even Ronon had agreed that he probably couldn't have the hat and sunglasses on during the ceremony. They would need another solution.

"What about that stuff Teyla uses?" Ronon suggested.

"You want to put _makeup_ on Sheppard?" Rodney gasped.

Ronon shrugged. Rodney took the hat off and eyed what he could see of John's bruise. Makeup might not actually be the worst idea, as strange as it felt to even consider.

John's brain seemed to be on about a ten-second delay. "You can't put _makeup_ on me," he said indignantly. "You guys don' even know how to use it."

Rodney looked at Ronon. John was right. They neither had the skills to apply makeup, nor the makeup itself.

"Can't be that hard," Ronon said. "I'll figure it out, Shep."

It took a little while to convince Teyla to let them borrow some of her makeup, long enough that Rodney was starting to get worried about the timing of everything. The only reason Teyla even seemed to allow them to take it at all was because Rodney strongly implied that they needed it for something relating to a surprise party.

It took even longer for them to finish working on Sheppard. He was irritatingly squirmy, and although he hadn't seemed to really understand anything for the past few hours, he had of course managed to process that they were using makeup on him. He didn't like that one bit.

" _Stop it_ ," John mumbled, for the millionth time. "Take it off."

"We can't," Ronon said sympathetically as Rodney tried, once again, to get John's head wound to look more like slightly bumpy skin and less like a very bad cut that now had makeup in it. "You don't wanna go to Beckett, do you?"

"No," John agreed reluctantly.

"Then you need the makeup."

"Don' wan' any makeup," John growled, and Rodney huffed in frustration, standing back to view his handiwork.

It looked...bad, if Rodney was being kind. Absolutely terrible, if he wasn't. Teyla's...whatever it was, skin-colored goo, was simply much darker than John's skin. It was smeary, clumpy, and did absolutely nothing to conceal either the black eye or the head wound. If anything, it drew more attention to them. John's hair had gotten caught in the crossfire of Rodney's overzealous makeup application, and now a few tendrils of bangs were stuck to his forehead, making him look even worse.

Sheppard's hair, that was another problem. Whatever he normally did to it must have been ruined by the hat. Rodney would usually kindly term John's hairstyle as "messy," perhaps "disheveled" or "rakish" if he was feeling particularly generous, but what he had in front of him now was best described as an unmitigated disaster. It was flat in all the wrong places, sticking straight up from the back of his head, and creased weirdly from the bandage.

"What do you usually do to your hair, Sheppard?" Rodney asked. Hopefully, they could repeat John's process and get his hair close enough to the usual Sheppard style that no one would notice.

"Nothin'," John answered, after a long pause.

Rodney sighed heavily. "Come on, Sheppard, I know you're concussed, but this is ridiculous. You have to do this every day, in order for it to look so consistently ludicrous. What do you do?"

"'M concussed but I'm not _stupid_ ," John snapped, looking momentarily more like his usual self. "'M tellin' you. I don' do anythin' to it. It just...is."

As much as Rodney hated it, he could completely believe that John rolled out of bed every morning and went about his day without so much as touching his hair. He figured this was something he could address with John at a later date, when he wasn't so concussed and would understand how much of a problem that was.

Ronon came up behind Rodney. "That looks terrible," he announced.

"Hey," Rodney said indignantly. "You do better."

"Hey," John said softly, but Rodney wasn't sure if he was offended on his own behalf or on Rodney's behalf or if he was just imitating Rodney.

"We need Teyla," Ronon said.

"What?" Rodney said sharply. Obviously he loved and trusted Teyla, but she was the last person he thought should be involved in a situation like this. She would tell Beckett in a heartbeat, and Ronon beating her up would sound like no threat to her at all.

Although, upon further consideration, maybe that was a good thing. Rodney really did think John should go to the infirmary at this point, whether he got pulled off-duty or not. And Teyla might be just the person to make it happen.

"But we can't tell her he's concussed," Ronon said quickly. "Or she'll turn him into Beckett."

"What?" Rodney groaned. "What are we supposed to tell her then? Look at him!"

"We'll just tell her he ran into a door or something. When he was drunk. And that he cut his forehead, and he needs to make it look better."

"If she sees the cut, she'll know something's wrong with his brain!"

"How?"

Rodney flapped his hands agitatedly, not understanding why Ronon was resoundingly refusing to see sense. "Sheppard clearly can't _think._ How is he supposed to talk to Teyla and pretend nothing's wrong?"

"You just won't talk when she's in the room. Right, Shep?"

"Right," John agreed sleepily.

Rodney sighed. They were collapsing under the weight of their own stupid plan. The only problem? He couldn't think of a better one. "Fine," he said, knowing he sounded horribly annoyed and not caring. "Go get Teyla."

* * *

Teyla had been disappointed to learn that they had needed her makeup supply not for a surprise-party-related reason, but because they were trying to cover up a bleeding gash on John's head. She was annoyed to learn that they had wasted a good deal of her makeup, and were left with results that were completely untenable. And she was worried to learn that John had ran into a door while he was drunk. No matter how many times they reassured her that it was only a flesh wound and he was completely fine, her gut just refused to believe it.

Ronon escorted her back to John's room, refusing to tell her anything more than that John had drunkenly slammed into a door and required makeup application skills. He knocked on the door, then slid it open to reveal Rodney brandishing a washcloth at John, one hand around the back of the Colonel's head as John tried to escape.

"Get _off,_ McKay," John snarled, his voice sounding slightly slurred and still very hungover.

"We need to get the makeup off, I thought you _wanted_ me to take it off-"

"I wan' you t'leave me alone," John interjected, and Rodney threw down the washcloth and folded his arms angrily.

"Fine, Colonel I-can-do-it-myself Sheppard, _you_ can figure out how to-" Rodney broke off as he finally registered the new arrivals. "Oh. Hello, Teyla."

Teyla nodded absentmindedly to Rodney, her attention already fully occupied by John. The Colonel looked terrible, far worse than they'd led her to expect. Part of it was likely due to the makeup smeared across his face, still streaked from Rodney's aborted attempt to wipe it away. But Teyla was far more preoccupied with the bruise that stretched over practically the whole side of John's face, ending somewhere in his hairline and accented by the lightly bleeding gash above his eyebrow.

"This is from a _door?_ " Teyla gasped, going across the room to John. Her displeasure was momentarily forgotten, as was her annoyance at having to rescue John from his own irresponsible choices. Now, she was just worried about her friend.

John shied away slightly from her touch at his cheek, a reaction she was familiar with from other times he'd been injured and embarrassed.

"'M okay," he muttered, refusing to meet her gaze.

"He's just embarrassed that he got drunk and ran into a door," Ronon said helpfully. "As he should be."

Teyla glared at Ronon, however much she privately agreed with him. Turning back to John, she retrieved the washcloth from the floor and began scrubbing the rest of the makeup from his face. He didn't resist, just closed his eyes and let her work.

"Can you also do something about his hair?" Rodney asked. "Can you believe it, apparently he doesn't actually do anything to it. Thank god he usually doesn't have to wear hats, he'd look ridiculous."

Teyla did not find this as surprising as Rodney seemed to, but she did welcome her chance to finally tackle Sheppard's mess of hair. It always seemed to be sticking up a different direction, and she often had to resist the urge to sneakily fix it when he wasn't paying attention.

"Maybe you can flatten it down," Rodney suggested. "Over the cut. So it's less noticeable."

"Thank you for your suggestions, Rodney," Teyla said as nicely as she felt Rodney deserved. "But I am aware of what needs to be done. I will do something about the Colonel's hair."

"Nothin' wrong with my hair," John whispered, sounding deeply aggrieved.

"Of course not," Teyla soothed as she tried to figure out how to cover up the massive bruise. One of the many problems with Rodney's makeup application job was that Teyla's skin was not very close in color to John's, and so the foundation she had didn't match very well. But she supposed she could sheer it out with lotion, maybe add a little bit of a lighter eyeshadow on top….

Teyla took John's face in her hand, turning it this way and that as she applied small amounts of makeup and blended it out with one corner of the washcloth. By the time she had done all that she thought she could, the wound on John's face looked...significantly better than before. Teyla had never used makeup to cover up an injury, but she was both artistic and good with her hands, so she thought the final results looked as good as could have been expected of her.

That was not to say they looked very good. While it was now a little less obvious what, exactly, had happened to John, that didn't mean that his face looked normal. Teyla spent a few minutes flattening one side of his hair down over the cut in his eyebrow, then spiking the rest up into something resembling its usual style. Then she stood back to examine her handiwork.

"Does it look okay?" John asked frantically, automatically reaching up to touch his eye.

Teyla frowned. "It looks…."

"Looks good enough," Ronon said, peering over her shoulder. "Lot better than before. Good job, Teyla."

"He needs to shave," Rodney said. He looked like he was holding himself back from giving a list of other criticisms.

Teyla pursed her lips. John looked fine with a little stubble, but she knew that he would never skip shaving right before an important event. Rodney was right.

"I can shave," John murmured. Teyla could count all of the times John had spoken since she had entered the room on one hand. Perhaps he was embarrassed about Teyla finding out that he had run into a door.

"You're all shaky," Rodney informed him. "You'll cut yourself."

"Will not."

"Will."

"Will not!" John said angrily. As if to demonstrate, he got up and stumbled towards the bathroom. Rodney threw up his hands and followed him, Teyla and Ronon trailing behind.

About thirty seconds later, there was a splash from behind the bathroom door. "Ouch."

"Sheppard, you just cut yourself, didn't you?"

"...no. Oops. Ouch."

" _Sheppard_ ," Rodney said in exasperation.

"John, let me do it," Teyla interjected before Rodney could antagonize John further. Without waiting for John's agreement, she pushed her way into the bathroom to find John leaning miserably over the sink, wiping blood off his neck with shaking hands. Teyla snatched the razor from the sink before John could grab it again and pushed him backwards, sitting him down on the edge of the bathtub.

"I can do it," John insisted quietly, and however annoyed Teyla was at John's typical stubbornness, she still felt sorry for the proud Colonel. "I jus'...need a minute."

"We do not have a minute," Teyla told him, pressing tissue against John's new cuts and deftly running the razor along his jaw. "It is almost time for the promotion."

John blanched, and Teyla sighed as she finished. She handed him a washcloth to get the last of the lather off his face, and he rubbed it over his face and neck, somehow missing an entire patch of skin. Teyla grabbed it back from him and cleaned him up more satisfactorily, beginning to be genuinely angry at the Colonel's helplessness. He had no business getting drunk enough to be this hungover, date or no date. The next morning, when he felt well enough to attend to her, Teyla would be addressing it with him.

"Thanks," John whispered, barely audible, and Teyla's mood softened despite herself. He had been irresponsible, yes, but he seemed almost miserable enough to serve as adequate punishment. Almost.

"Come, John," Teyla said gently, offering him a hand up. "We must go."

John took her hand, and she was briefly alarmed at the amount of effort it took for her to pull him upright. She let him go, eyeing him to make sure that he would stay on his feet.

"We have a plan," Ronon told her, as soon she and John made their way back into his bedroom. "Uhh, can you distract Weir?"

Teyla frowned. "Why am I distracting Elizabeth?"

Ronon squirmed. "She was pretty mad at Sheppard earlier. If she sees he's still hungover, he's gonna get in huge trouble. She'll yell at him."

"I don' wanna be yelled at," John said, sounding vaguely panicked. "Teyla, please?"

Teyla bit back the urge to tell John that she thought a good lecture was probably what he deserved. Now was not the time or the place, and she'd already agreed to help so far.

"Very well," she said, still a little reluctant. "I will go find Elizabeth."

* * *

Ronon was running out of ideas. Since John's concussion, he felt that he had had to come up with a new idea approximately every ten minutes. Some of them had been good, but a lot of them had been very bad. Honestly, he thought the best plan he had made so far was to bring the rest of the team into their scheme. Now, at least, he wasn't trying to figure everything out by himself.

But now the promotion was only twenty minutes away, Ronon could tell John was fading fast, and he was fresh out of ideas. He wasn't even sure if John would make it all the way to the promotion, let alone survive the ceremony itself.

John was "sitting" on his bed now, fully dressed, hair arranged to cover most of the wound on his forehead, makeup disguising the bruise. From a distance, he actually didn't look half-bad. Not obviously injured enough that Ronon thought anyone would question him.

How he looked was less of a problem at this point. The much bigger problem was how he was acting. He was slumped against the wall, eyes closed, breathing labored. Ronon had asked him a few questions over the past couple minutes, and he'd responded to all of them. But sometimes, those responses had been really slow in coming. Sometimes, they hadn't made sense.

"I think you should drink more Monster," Ronon informed John.

"Come on," Rodney said. "That hasn't helped-"

"He's falling asleep," Ronon said. "Do you have a better idea?"

"No," Rodney said defensively.

"It's settled then," Ronon said. "I'm getting you another can of Monster."

John groaned.

Ronon took a can from the box in the corner, and then monitored John as he drank a couple of sips. After a minute or two, he handed the can back to Ronon, looking reproachful.

"Ew," he said softly. "Feel sick."

"Do you think dramamine would help?" Rodney asked, fingers drumming anxiously on John's bedside table.

"He's concussed, Mckay, not seasick."

"Well we can't very well have him throwing up during the ceremony, can we…?"

Throwing up during the ceremony was starting to look like a distinct possibility. "You should go," Ronon said. "You might need to...distract the Marines."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Rodney asked.

"Say things Sheppard would say? I dunno. I'll see if I can...get him to be doing a little better. And I'll call you when we're on our way."

Rodney scowled, but he turned and left the room as well, casting one last glance back at John. Sheppard didn't seem to notice.

When the door had shut behind the annoyed physicist, Ronon crouched down in front of Sheppard again. John's eyes opened lazily, focusing loosely on Ronon's face.

"I'm gonna need you to drink some more Monster, buddy," Ronon said, pushing the can back into John's clammy fingers. John's gaze dropped to the can, and he whimpered softly.

"'M sick."

"You're also sleepy," Ronon pointed out. "And if you pass out in the middle of this promotion, everyone's gonna know that you're actually concussed."

Looking extremely pathetic, John managed a few more sips of Monster. He broke off, his face twisting in discomfort. Ronon took back the can, figuring that was probably as good as he was going to get.

"Good job, Shep. C'mon."

Ronon heaved John to his feet, discovering with no small amount of alarm that as soon as he let go, Sheppard started to tip over. He didn't seem to notice that this was happening, or make any sort of move to catch himself. Ronon quickly grabbed him by the arm before he could fall, and John blinked unhappily.

Ronon ushered him out the door, then had to slow down as John stumbled along beside him. Ronon readjusted Sheppard, taking a bit more of the man's weight, and they continued down the hallway.

"How you doin', Sheppard?" Ronon asked, looking sideways. John's head was dropping to his chest, his eyes almost completely closed. From this close, Ronon could see the black eye and the head wound beneath the makeup, and he grimaced. Somehow, trying to conceal them had made them seem more serious.

John didn't answer, just continued shuffling along at an excruciatingly slow pace. Ronon repeated the question, this time rewarded by a slight shake of Sheppard's head.

"Mmm," John mumbled, then fell silent.

"Sheppard? Are you gonna make it?"

"Make it…yeah."

Even Ronon was beginning to have his doubts about the wisdom of Sheppard's plan. If John couldn't even process well enough to answer simple questions, if he could hardly keep his eyes open and couldn't keep any amount of solid food down, then maybe he really _should_ go to Beckett. Ronon really, _really_ wanted to go on missions again, but he wanted to go on missions with a fully-healed Sheppard. Ronon was starting to worry that he might have done John permanent damage.

But at this point, Ronon was worried they'd dug themselves in too deep. If they went to Carson now, not only would he be mad about John's concussion, but also about the fact that they had spent the entire day concealing it. Ronon didn't want to overreact, and end up getting John in trouble. So he just kept dragging the Colonel forward, hoping he could just make it through the ceremony and then they could figure out...something.

* * *

Now that Rodney wasn't actively looking at John, he was starting to feel much more confident about this entire adventure. He had told a few Marines that he was introducing John, and he had been surprised that instead of confusion, anger, and stress, the Marines he talked to seemed pretty optimistic. He had asked why, and had been told that, somehow, Zelenka's lesson on interacting with scientists in the field had been absolutely incredible. They were looking for more of the same, and Rodney was happy to deliver.

So now Rodney could talk to a captive audience while Ronon tried to herd John through the hallways of Atlantis. While Rodney was still quite nervous about the situation on the whole, he was feeling rather good about this particular part of it.

The Gateroom had been transformed, somehow all without John's help, and now there was a little podium in front of the Gate where John, supposedly, was supposed to stand and make a speech. Rodney walked confidently towards it - he still hadn't decided how, exactly, he was going to stall the ceremony, but he was sure he could figure something out on the fly.

There was a polite applause when Rodney stepped up. He quickly scanned the crowd - no Elizabeth or Teyla, that had to be a good sign. But there were...an awful lot of Marines. Rodney was starting to feel a little nervous, and he tugged at the collar of his jacket. With the whole John fiasco taking up most of his afternoon, Rodney hadn't had time to change, and he was still in his t-shirt and jacket.

Rodney didn't even know the name of the Marine John was supposed to be promoting. He didn't know his current rank, nor the rank he was achieving. He couldn't even list the military ranks in order. He hoped he wouldn't have to stall for very long.

"Hello," Rodney said. His voice sounded kind of weird and squeaky. Did it usually? He hoped it would start sounding normal again soon. "Thank you all for gathering here today."

There was a polite smattering of applause.

"The military, along with...uh, scientists, and...doctors, is really...the lifeblood of Atlantis."

The Marines didn't seem to find anything wrong with this statement. No one laughed, or booed, or threatened to shoot him. Emboldened, Rodney continued.

"Yes. The lifeblood in the body of Atlantis. And Sheppard, er, I mean, Colonel Sheppard, is...is the heart. Well, of the military, at least. In a grander sense, encompassing the whole expedition, I would say the heart is Dr. Weir."

Rodney coughed slightly. He was beginning to get slightly off track with the speech, he felt. Perhaps he should stick with the original metaphor….

"But in this case, the heart is Colonel Sheppard. And the military is, as I said, the lifeblood. And each of you is...erm, an important…component. In the blood. A cell? A blood cell."

Rodney was beginning to wish that he hadn't chosen a metaphor that relied so heavily on basic concepts of biology. Why hadn't he compared the Marines to circuits, or Gate theory, or something he was actually knowledgeable about? Well, it was too late now.

"We are here today to recognize one particular...blood cell," Rodney said. The Marines were beginning to look confused, and as much as Rodney wanted to tell himself that it was just typical thickheaded military, he was fairly sure the problem was his speech. Rodney reminded himself that it didn't matter what he said, all he had to do was keep the Marines occupied until Ronon arrived with Sheppard. The only way out was through.

"This…," Rodney trailed off as he realized that he didn't even know if the Marine John was promoting was male or female, "person…embodies many of the qualities that are paramount in an expedition such as this one."

He was losing the Marines, he could see it. The ones who didn't look completely lost looked irritated, or possibly faintly amused. Rodney needed a new direction. How did Sheppard manage to do this? Rodney wasn't even sure what qualities Marines were supposed to have.

"Bravery," Rodney said desperately. "Service...above and beyond the call of duty. Umm, sacrifice."

Rodney tried to think of what kinds of things Sheppard might say in a situation like this. He'd never heard the pilot give a promotion before, he could barely even imagine what sort of speech might come from the laid-back Colonel's mouth. Rodney couldn't very well say "you done good, have a beer on me, congrats on the promotion, couldn't go to a better guy." Could he?

"There is no one on Atlantis more worthy of this promotion." There. That was kind of the right sentiment.

But then he realized that might sound kind of mean. And wasn't even exactly what he meant. He just meant that this Marine _was_ worthy of a promotion, not necessarily that they were the _only_ worthy one….

This was impossible. If Sheppard didn't get there soon, Rodney didn't know what he was going to do.


	10. Chapter 10

Ronon didn't think they were ever going to get to the promotion ceremony. Sheppard could barely walk. Every few steps, he seemed to trip over his own feet. Ronon watched as he staggered heavily against the wall. Even with a hand holding him upright on the wall, he probably still would have fallen if Ronon hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder.

John groaned. "C'n we rest f'r a second?" he slurred.

"We're almost there," Ronon said desperately. That wasn't even really true, Sheppard had been walking so slowly that it would take at least several more minutes to make it to the Gateroom. But they'd already left both Rodney and Teyla alone for quite a while, and Ronon was worried. He had no idea how they were doing, or how much longer they could take. Ronon couldn't get his mind off Rodney in particular - what could the scientist possibly be saying to the Marines to keep them occupied?

But Ronon peered into Sheppard's face, and he really wasn't sure if the man could keep going. His skin, in the places where it wasn't bruised or covered in makeup, had turned a horrifying shade of greyish green. Sweat stood out on his brow, and he was panting for air, mouth partially opened.

"I just need-"

"Come on, Shep, you'll be alright…."

Ronon steered him forwards another few steps. John managed to stumble alongside Ronon for a second or two, and then collapsed heavily to his knees.

"Really dizzy," John ground out, resting a hand on the ground in a clear attempt to steady himself. "Sorry…."

"I think you should go to Beckett," Ronon said. He hadn't meant to say it necessarily, it had just slipped out. But looking at John as he was now…it seemed like they might have made the wrong decision.

"No," John whispered.

"Sheppard-"

He mumbled something that Ronon couldn't make out. Ronon crouched down next to him, leaning close so he could hear.

"'M gonna throw up again," John whispered weakly. Before Ronon could do anything but scramble out of the way, John was leaning forward, retching the small amount of Monster he'd managed back up onto the floor. He began to list forward, and Ronon caught him by the shoulder, holding him upright.

John shuddered weakly under Ronon's hand, trembling as he continued to throw up. He'd gone even paler now, and his eyes were clenched tightly closed. He was obviously in excruciating pain. He wobbled again, but didn't reach to catch himself, just let out a small whimper.

"I'm callin' it," Ronon told him, beginning to get genuinely scared for Sheppard's well being. He clearly wasn't going to be able to make it to the promotion, and as much as Ronon was dreading his encounter with Beckett, John clearly needed a doctor. "We're taking you to the infirmary."

John coughed painfully onto the floor and continued to heave. He didn't seem to register any of what Ronon had said. This, more than anything else, really decided him. Ronon reached up and tapped the comms, steadying Sheppard with one hand.

"McKay. Stop talking, tell 'em it's canceled or something. I'm taking Sheppard to the infirmary."

"Oh good," Rodney began. "I think that's-"

Ronon didn't bother to listen to the end of the sentence before he disconnected the call. John had managed to stop throwing up and was now glaring at him balefully.

"No...infirmary," John whispered.

"Sorry, Shep," Ronon said sympathetically. And he was sorry, he didn't want either of them to be yelled at by Beckett. But he _really_ didn't want Sheppard to end up permanently damaged. "But you have to. You'll thank me later."

John blinked in Ronon's general direction for a few seconds, and his eyes slid closed again. "I won' go."

"Okay," Ronon said, shrugging. Then, he reached down and lifted John off the ground, settling him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

John gasped, squirming weakly, but he was barely half-conscious at this point and it was easy enough for Ronon to keep his hold on the man. Ronon readjusted his grip slightly and set off down the hallway to the infirmary, accompanied by soft, inarticulate protests from John.

* * *

"And that is why I am concerned," Teyla said, once again moving slightly to block Weir's exit from her office.

"Candle supplies?" Elizabeth asked, sounding rightfully exasperated.

"Yes. And the state of bees," Teyla said, knowing she sounded ridiculous even as the words left her mouth. She wasn't good at this. She wasn't Rodney or John, she wasn't used to talking endlessly about unimportant subjects, and distracting Elizabeth was taxing her.

"Teyla? It's McKay. You can stop talking to Elizabeth, Ronon is taking John to the infirmary, which I think is probably for the best-"

"Why is John going to the infirmary? He is only hungover," Teyla pointed out.

Elizabeth crossed her arms. "Who is that? What is going on? Infirmary?"

"He's actually concussed," Rodney said. Teyla closed her eyes softly - of course he was. A part of her had suspected the whole time that there was something worse going on than a simple hangover. Teyla spared a moment to wonder if Rodney was still distracting the Marines, if he was saying all this about John in front of them, but then decided she didn't really have time to worry about that.

"He has a concussion," Teyla informed Elizabeth. "That is why he has been acting so…."

"A second concussion?" Weir asked angrily.

Teyla hadn't even really began to process what Rodney's announcement might mean, and she felt a wave of anger roll over her as well. Not only did John have a second concussion, something she knew from Beckett could be extremely dangerous, but he had been actively trying to hide it. He had also enlisted _her_ in hiding it, and worse, even suspecting something was wrong, she had let him.

Or, more accurately, Ronon and Rodney had enlisted her. She didn't think John was aware enough to really be involved at that point, but as soon as John was safe, the other two were never going to hear the end of it.

"I believe so," Teyla said. "When I talked to him early, he was acting very…."

Concussed. He had been acting very concussed. And if he was that bad, and he had gone the entire day without treatment, pretending nothing was wrong….

"We need to go to the infirmary," Elizabeth said, and while she still sounded angry, she also sounded very worried. "He might-"

Teyla nodded quickly - those were her thoughts exactly. She hurried with Elizabeth towards the infirmary, and Teyla wasn't sure whether she should be angry or very, very afraid.

* * *

John was being carried, and it was _terrible._ First, and most pressingly, it was making him horribly nauseous. Even though he was pretty sure he had already thrown up everything in his stomach, in the _hallway,_ no less, the dizzying movement was making his stomach churn. He had to keep swallowing, determined not to throw up on Ronon, or throw up again.

Secondly, and almost equally as bad, this was _embarrassing._ He was being carried through the halls of Atlantis by Ronon, as if he were a child. He would be protesting, except a part of him knew he wouldn't be able to walk. The world was still tilting horribly around him, and his legs were so weak he knew if he were to try to stand on his own he would immediately crumple.

John hoped they weren't passing anyone. His head hurt too much to open his eyes to check, and he didn't think his vision would be able to focus anyway, so he couldn't be sure. All he could do was hope that they weren't.

"Almost there, Sheppard."

It took quite a while for John to understand Ronon's words, far too long for him to respond. Not that he would have anyway, he was _angry_ with Ronon, the Satedan had done...something. John couldn't remember exactly what it was, aside from the humiliating carrying, but he certainly felt betrayed. Maybe, when Ronon put him down, he could remember….

* * *

Carson checked his watch, sighing. John still hadn't shown up for his daily checkup, and Carson knew that he was supposed to be giving a promotion now. If Carson wanted to see the Colonel, he would probably have to intentionally track him down afterward. It wasn't surprising, really, but it was annoying. John had actually made it to the earlier checkups, albeit reluctantly, but since he had started feeling better, he had been less and less reliable.

Carson's thoughts were pulled away from his vaguely irritating patient by a commotion outside the door.

"Doc?" Ronon yelled, and before Carson could respond, the infirmary doors banged open. Ronon hurried into the infirmary, and Carson's mouth dropped open as he registered the limp form of the Colonel, in full dress uniform, draped over Ronon's shoulder.

"What-" Carson began, and Ronon pushed past him and deposited John onto an empty bed. He laid him down surprisingly gently, and John immediately curled onto his side, one arm coming up to shield his face.

"Concussion," Ronon said briefly, standing back to allow Carson access.

"Noooo," John whispered, curling further into himself. "Nope."

" _What?_ " Carson asked sharply, although he was careful to keep his voice low. If John somehow _had_ gotten a second concussion, he would likely be sensitive to both light and sound. "How? When?"

While Carson was waiting for the anxious Satedan to give him answers, he began to examine John. The Colonel wasn't exactly making it easy for him, squirming as far away from Carson as he could get without falling off the bed. Gently, Carson pulled John's arm away from his face, hissing sharply through his teeth at John's slightly uneven pupils.

"Last night," Ronon said.

" _How?_ " Carson repeated sternly.

"We were sparrin'," Ronon mumbled.

" _Sparring_?" Carson exclaimed angrily. He was fairly certain he had _explicitly_ told John that he was not to spar with the concussion. But did he listen? No he did not. Typical.

"It was an accident," Ronon said. Carson frowned. The intentionality of the action was not really Carson's concern. Either way, John had a concussion, and a fairly serious one by the looks of it, on top of the concussion that he had _just had._

"Stop it," John mumbled, shying away from Carson again. "Hurts…."

"Aye, I'm sure it does," Carson said. He made sure his impatience wasn't evident in his voice.

Carson peeled John's hair away from his forehead, trying to get a good look at the wound. His bangs were sticky, at first he thought that it was blood, but then he realized….

"Is there _makeup_ in this?" Carson gasped. He ran a finger over John's temple, and sure enough, it came away with a chalky coat of tan.

Ronon shrugged, not meeting Carson's eyes. "We had to hide it somehow."

"Son," Carson said, keeping his voice low but infusing it with anger, "you cannot put makeup in an open wound."

"It wasn't me it. It was Teyla."

" _Teyla?_ " When Carson got his hands on the rest of SGA-1, they were going to be sorry they had ever even laid eyes on the Colonel. "Rodney was involved in this too, I presume."

"Yeah," Ronon mumbled.

"Stop _shoutin'_ ," John mumbled.

Carson's shoulders slumped - as much as he wanted to chew Ronon out right here and now, he would never do it at the expense of his patient. "Go stand over there," he said angrily, gesturing to the corner of the infirmary. Ronon must have sensed that it was not the time to argue, because he went without a fight.

"Alright, lad, let's see how serious this is," Carson said gently. "Can you follow my finger with just your eyes?"

John did as he was told, following Carson's finger with his eyes and then completing a few other tests. After a minute, he had to close his eyes and breathe hard for a moment, and Carson knew he was feeling nauseous. But he didn't throw up, which Carson supposed was something.

"Colonel?" Carson asked gently, once John's breathing evened out again. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to open your eyes."

John moaned, but his eyes cracked open.

"I'm sorry about this, son," Carson said apologetically, and shone a penlight into John's eyes.

John's pupils didn't react, but he certainly did. With a sound halfway between a yelp and a whimper, he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands flying to his head.

"I really am sorry," Carson told him. "Eyes open again, Colonel."

"Nnnn," John whispered.

"Just a few more tests, lad. Then you can rest."

One eye cracked open. "...Rest?"

"Yes," Carson said soothingly.

"Thought it was dang'rous," John mumbled. "Ronon said-"

Carson shot an absolutely murderous glare at Ronon, who had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. Turning back to John, he patted him on the shoulder. "Remember, Colonel, I'm the doctor here. Now, can you tell how many fingers I'm holding up?"

John's eyes creased in thought, or maybe it was pain. With the state he was in now, they were probably essentially the same thing. "Wha'?"

"Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?" Carson repeated patiently.

"Mmmm, nope," John whispered, closing his eyes again. "Rest now?"

"Rest now," Carson agreed. He doubted that the Colonel would be able to stay asleep when Carson began seriously examining the wound, but that could wait. Carson didn't have the heart to keep him awake even a second longer, not with the dark circles accenting even his unblackened eye and his generally rundown appearance. He was clearly exhausted. Besides, Carson had other matters to address.

"Ronon? I believe you owe me an explanation. In fact, I believe you owe me _many._ "

* * *

Zelenka was on his way to the Gateroom when the hallway was suddenly very crowded. Rodney, Weir, and Teyla were all heading in the opposite direction, and Rodney was almost _running._

"Ah. Jello in the mess hall today?" Zelenka asked.

"Sheppard," Rodney said, both briefly and unhelpfully. Zelenka could think of at least fifty things that could mean, few of them good. Wasn't he supposed to be giving a promotion right now?

Before Zelenka had decided whether or not he wanted to know what Rodney was talking about, the three of them were already gone. Now slightly curious, Zelenka continued on down the hallway.

The Gateroom was absolutely filled with Marines in dress uniforms, all of them looking vaguely confused and slightly concerned, and all milling around aimlessly. Zelenka scanned the sea, looking for someone he knew well enough to ask what was going on.

"Ah. Lorne. Where is the Colonel?"

"I think he's in the infirmary," Lorne said, sounding stressed.

"He's...what?" Last Zelenka had checked, people didn't need to be admitted to the infirmary for hangovers, even very severe ones. Especially not in the evening, when they had already spent the whole day hungover. "Do you know what happened?"

Lorne shook his head slightly. "Rodney was...introducing him as a speaker. I don't know why, and it was going...well, it was going pretty badly, to be honest. But then he got a call, and said that John had a concussion and the ceremony was going to be postponed. And that he was going to the infirmary. I don't know much more than that. Rodney just left."

Zelenka spent a moment wondering how John could have somehow gotten a concussion walking from his room to the Gateroom, and then realized that that wasn't the situation at all. He frowned as several things klicked into place - Rodney's panicked response when Zelenka had asked him where he was going, the fact that Zelenka had had to cover for him earlier in the afternoon, his appearance when Lorne and Zelenka had visited him in his office, and his encounter with Sheppard and Ronon in the hallway the night before. The Colonel hadn't just received a concussion, he had had one the entire day. The hangover was just a cover story.

Which meant….

Lorne seemed worried enough about Sheppard that he wasn't thinking about their bet, but Zelenka had gambled enough with Rodney, a man who cheated like he needed it to survive, that he felt it was important to maintain his integrity.

"That means you've won," Zelenka said sadly.

"I've...what?" Lorne asked, seeming distracted.

"The Colonel was not hungover. He had a concussion. I bet you that he was hungover, so I have lost the bet."

"Right," Lorne said slowly. Then, he brightened. "You're right!"

Zekenka sighed - Lorne was probably never going to let him live this down. He wondered if there was any way he could spin the situation to make it seem as if John had in fact been hungover, and still somehow win. He decided he would need more details, and hoped that, once everything had settled down, he could get more information from Rodney.

* * *

Ronon was starting to feel pretty guilty. Obviously, he had known that he couldn't provide John with the same level of care as a real doctor. But it certainly hadn't even occurred to him that he could potentially cause John lasting harm, not until Carson had started chewing him out.

"...Could have caused _permanent neurological damage_ -"

Ronon hung his head, staring at his feet. He suddenly felt much smaller. Carson wasn't even yelling, just talking very quietly in a low voice pitched to avoid hurting John's sensitive hearing. That almost felt worse.

Carson continued whisper-yelling, and Ronon snuck a guilty glance at John. The Colonel was curled loosely on top of the bed, dead asleep. Carson had cleaned out the cut - again - and it was now neatly bandaged, but that did nothing to hide the bruising, the swollen eye, or the lines of pain around John's mouth. Now that Ronon was looking at Sheppard under the bright lights of the infirmary, without the hat and sunglasses to conceal the worst of it, he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking.

"But Sheppard's gonna be okay, right?" Ronon blurted out, cutting across whatever Carson had been saying.

"Yes, son," Carson said, a little more gently. Then, his expression hardened again, and he crossed his arms. " _This time_. You both were lucky, _as well as_ careless and irresponsible."

Ronon shifted uncomfortably, and Carson looked like he was going to start telling him off again, although Ronon couldn't imagine what more he could say. It wasn't as though Ronon could feel any worse than he already did.

Ronon was saved by the infirmary door banging open to reveal a wild-eyed McKay.

"Sheppard? How is he? You know, I really did think you should have done this from the beginning…."

Beckett whirled on Rodney, but it was too late. On the bed, John shifted, moaning slightly.

"R'dney?" John whispered into the pillow, slurring heavily. Ronon took an automatic half-step towards him, backing down at a glare from Carson.

"Yes, Sheppard?" Rodney asked, lowering his voice.

"Shh," John murmured, and gave a small sigh as he turned a little further into his pillow.

"Oh." Rodney gave John a guilty look that he didn't seem to register in the slightest, and turned to Carson. "Is he...?"

"He'll be fine," Carson answered, then glared again. "No thanks to either of you. And what's this I hear about Teyla? I would have thought she had more sense. I can't say I'm surprised at Ronon, but really, Rodney, you should have known better."

"It's not my fault!" Rodney squeaked. "Ronon told me he would beat me up if I told you!"

Carson whirled around, glaring at Ronon again, and Ronon wished that he could disappear into thin air. He had certainly learned some kind of lesson from this whole mess, and he thought maybe if he could tell Carson that, the doctor would feel better. But while he was certain this particular mistake was not one that he would make again, he was struggling a little bit to explain why.

Ronon opened his mouth - perhaps to tell Carson that he had learned that if John was concussed, he was probably not the right person to listen to, but he was interrupted by the infirmary door banging open again. This time, it revealed Teyla, who looked both frightened and angry, and Weir, who mostly looked confused.

"Did you _help John hide a concussion from Carson_?" Weir yelled at Ronon.

Ronon backed up against the wall - he had spent the entire day worried about being yelled at by Carson, but it hadn't even occurred to him how much he should also worry about being yelled at by Elizabeth. She looked about ready to rip his head off, and that wasn't something he would say about her lightly.

"Don't talk so loudly!" Carson hissed. "The Colonel is sleeping."

This sobered Weir up instantly, and she slowly turned towards John. He was still lying curled in the bed, eyes closed a little too tightly, hands clenched on his sheets.

"How is he?" Elizabeth whispered.

"He'll be alright," Carson said. "He's got a nasty concussion, and I'm going to keep him off-duty for at least two more weeks. But he shouldn't have any lasting damage. He's just resting."

John mumbled something that Ronon couldn't make out, and Carson was instantly bending close to him, holding up a hand for quiet.

"What was that, son? Do you need something?"

"I _was_ resting," he said, sounding both very quiet and quite upset. "Now everyone's _yellin'_."

"I'm sorry, Sheppard," Carson said, and he did sound sorry. "We will talk quieter. Please, try to get some sleep."

"I _am_ ," John said resentfully.

"We'll talk in my office," Carson whispered, transfixing Ronon, as well as Rodney and Teyla, with another glare. "I would like the whole story, in case there are any other...surprises."

"So would I," Elizabeth said, sounding soft but deadly. Ronon wished very much that he could run away, but he thought that window of opportunity had probably closed. Reluctantly, he and the other two team members filed into Carson's office. Ronon sat down, thinking he would rather be the one with the concussion.

* * *

John opened his eyes cautiously, preparing for the inevitable spike of pain. But the light around him was dim, and although his head still ached, the resulting pain wasn't quite as excruciating as he'd expected.

John lay still for another few seconds, trying to sort through the increasingly confused events since he and Ronon had sparred. The last thing he remembered, and only in a few blurry snapshots, was walking to the promotion ceremony. Try as he might, everything beyond that point was twisted and foggy, like a dream.

As the room around him came into focus, John recognized his surroundings as the infirmary. That couldn't be good, how had he ended up here?

John frowned as something swam nearer to the surface of his mind, remaining just out of reach of memory. Something about Ronon, something that had made John angry, and embarrassed…. Ronon hadn't _carried_ him, had he? Surely that had to be a nightmare.

"Feelin' better?"

All thoughts of the past few...hours? days? were forgotten as John recognized Ronon's voice. Whatever he was still unsure of, Ronon could probably tell him what had happened.

"Yeah. Infirmary?" he asked.

"Yeah," Ronon confirmed. "You kinda passed out. Sorry."

John sighed. At the time, it had seemed vitally important that he avoid going to the infirmary, but now, he couldn't even really remember why. And although he wouldn't admit it to anyone, the feeling of having lost an entire day was frightening. If he was really that bad, Ronon had probably made the right call.

"'Sokay. Probably for the best," John admitted.

The Satedan flashed him a brief smile. "Good to hear. And you feel better?"

"Uh huh," John answered, surprised to find that he wasn't even lying.

"Alright. Then I'm gonna get Beckett, and he's gonna yell at you a lot."

"Don't get him then!" John said sharply. He was feeling much better, not so tired or groggy, but that didn't mean he wanted to be _yelled_ at. "Just...I'm gonna go back to sleep."

"No way, Shep," Ronon said. "Doc said to get him when you woke up, and I'm done hiding stuff from him. Didn't turn out so well last time."

John supposed that that was true. But still, he didn't really want to be yelled at by Carson for something he had already realized was a mistake, not when he had just woken up.

Was there a way to get out of this without getting yelled at? Beckett wasn't particularly prone to fits of anger, especially not when his patients still weren't feeling themselves, and John thought he could probably get him headed off on a different track.

The easiest way...the easiest way was probably to look as pathetic as possible. Carson would never be able to yell at him then. Normally, John had too much pride for something like that, but in this case, it was just about the only sort of scheme he could muster up. He had seen Teyla do it once, and it had worked great for her.

"Can you get me a popsicle before getting him?" John asked.

Ronon immediately brightened, and John had a hazy memory of Ronon begging him to eat. Ronon went to the freezer in the corner - John thought it was pretty likely only doctors were allowed to get stuff from it, but he decided not to mention that - and handed John a popsicle. It took John a second to unwrap it, his fingers were thick and fumbling, his whole body still exhausted and weak, but after a moment, he had revealed an orange popsicle. Carson must have given him some drugs that took the edge off the nausea he'd been feeling for the past day, but the first taste of his popsicle - cool, sweet - actually helped to settle his stomach even more.

Ronon told John he had no choice but to get Carson, and wished him the best, and a second later left to get the doctor. As soon as the curtain around his bed was drawn aside, John popped the popsicle in his mouth and sank back into the pillows, trying to look as weak and sickly as possible. It wasn't hard. He was feeling pretty weak and sickly. He knew Carson well enough to know the popsicle would help.

"Hey, Doc," he mumbled around the popsicle.

Carson did in fact look like he was about to yell, but his face quickly softened.

"Hello, John," he said. "How are you feeling?"

John didn't want to act like he was feeling too good - that would increase his chances of getting yelled at. Also, he wasn't.

He shrugged slightly. "'M better than before. And Ronon got me a popsicle."

"Are you experiencing any nausea?"

"Not really."

"A headache?"

"Mmm, yeah."

"Later we'll need to talk about what you did," Carson said, mock sternly, shaking a finger at John. "It was very irresponsible."

John nodded, licking his popsicle. Honestly, at this point, he completely agreed. Now that he was in the infirmary, he could in fact confirm that he felt much better than he had when he was wandering around Atlantis, trying to pretend he was just hungover.

"But that can wait until you're feeling better. For now, I'd just like you to get some rest."

"Will do, Doc." John paused. "Go easy on Ronon."

He had been about to cite some evidence as to why Ronon deserved to be gone easy on. He couldn't think of anything specific. But Ronon had been nothing but careful with him, and treated him with nothing but the utmost care and concern the whole time they had been trying to hide John's concussion. It wasn't really Ronon's fault that John didn't give very good orders when he was concussed.

Carson sighed. "Very well. So long as he doesn't try anything like this again."

He left, and John settled back into the pillows, licking at his popsicle. He had made his recovery longer by giving himself the second concussion, he knew that. But, he had pretty good friends, so he thought it was going to be okay.


End file.
